


Cursed

by strawberrymilano



Series: a blessing and a curse [1]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Angst, BAMF Daryl, BAMF Rick, Crazy Rick, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Magic, Magic isn't known, Mental Health Issues, Mystery, Oblivious Rick, Past Lori Grimes/Rick Grimes, Protective Daryl, Psychological Trauma, Secret Admirer, Slow Build, So cute in some parts you may actually throw up, Survival, Tiny!Daryl, who has psychosis but is also less crazy than he thinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-03-19 23:41:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 71,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3628572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrymilano/pseuds/strawberrymilano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl's got a tiny problem. Literally. He's only four inches tall. Good thing he's always been able to take care of himself, no matter how small.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clotho

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the [tumblr prompt](http://tea-and-outer-space.tumblr.com/post/99399784683/aus): i was shrunk to 4 inches tall by a witch and now i kinda live in your kitchen without you knowing au

Daryl is sprinting through the forest, jumping over gnarled roots and dodging plants like he's on fire. He knows that no matter how fast he runs, it probably won't be enough to get him out of this mess. He spots a small ditch under an outcropping and tumbles down into it, scuffling until he's deep in its shadows and dank smell. His harsh breathing is too loud - he holds his breath, even though it burns in his lungs.

Then he hears it.

Footsteps, crunching on dry leaves and snapping sticks.

A shiver wracks through Daryl's frame. It isn't even trying to hide its approach, it's just closing in on him, slowly but surely. Somehow, that's scarier.

He closes his eyes and swallows the fear clawing up his throat. Just another minute, maybe two, and it'll pass him by. Then he'll get out of here with his kills and never look back.

The sounds stop.

Daryl holds himself stock still, even though his sore muscles are close to shaking. It's listening for him, and if it hears him, it'll be over. He'll be done.

Wind rustles through the treetops high above them, but other than that, Daryl can't hear a thing. There are no birds chirping, no bugs buzzing, no woodland creatures pattering around. They're too smart to end up like Daryl - every single one of them can probably sense it from miles away. Not for the first time, Daryl wishes he had that ability. It would save him a lot of grief.

There's a creak as it shifts its weight, turning itself around.

Daryl squeezes his crossbow in his hands, so hard that his knuckles go white, and he prays for it to just give up on chasing him. He knows he has a snowball's chance in hell for any prayer of his to actually work, but he prays anyway.

It sniffs the air a few times, and slowly pads over the underbrush with only the slightest sounds of crinkling giving it away. Right around where Daryl is hiding.

Daryl’s never really been prey for a predator out here, not in the wild. He’s always been the hunter, not the hunted. But suddenly he feels like – like there’s an eerie familiarity to this. Like he’s back in that goddamn matchbox of a crawlspace, chary of every heavy breath, smashed bottle, and creaking floorboard.

After what seems like an eternity, it finally stamps at the ground with an angry paw and starts walking back the way it came. Daryl hears the thud of every step, hardly believing his luck, and waits until it fades away.

He still doesn't dare move.

After another ten minutes or so, he hears the buzz of cicadas slowly rise up out of the silence. Squirrels are chattering in the trees again.

He peeks an eye open. If the other animals are back, it should be safe now.

Carefully, he relaxes his tight grip on his crossbow and rolls forward onto his feet. His legs are numb and his throat is raw, but he shakes it off easily enough. He slings his bow and his kills over his back, presses a hand to the deep, bleeding wound on his shoulder, and gets on the move again.

His breath is coming shallow and fast, and his feet stumble every so often, but he keeps moving. Daryl knows that if he doesn't get somewhere protected, he'll never make it through another month - and he's far away from anything resembling civilization. Daryl glances at the horizon. The sun is peeking over the hills and through the thick forest, but it won't be long until it sets. He doesn't know what'll happen to him if he's out here alone at night, not with that thing after him in this forest, and he forces his feet to move faster.

He trips over something and crashes down on one knee.

"Shit," he mutters. The blood loss from his shoulder is starting to make him dizzy and faint, and it takes an embarrassingly long time for him to claw himself up onto his feet again.

He's limping now. Something is wrong with his knee. He grits his teeth and keeps moving. Either he sucks it up and makes it out of this territory before nightfall or he dies. It's a simple choice.

"Get a move on, Dixon," he breathes, grabbing at a nearby trunk to support some of his weight as he goes. "You're almost there. 'Nuther mile or so and you're out."

When he finds one of his own markers carved into the dirt, he spurs himself on for another ten minutes headed east before he has to stop to catch his breath. When he stands up again, his vision tunnels. He forces his body past it anyway.

His shoulder has started to hurt. Badly. It’s way beyond stinging; it’s flying right into scorching territory. The wound must be infected by something pretty fuckin' nasty.

"Shit," he slurs. "Shit. That asshole."

It's getting sparser, with less bushes and plants popping up around him. There's more space. The trunks are young and slender. He must be getting close to the edge of the woods.

His eyes widen as salvation comes into view. There’s an enormous chainlink fence not far away, he can see it from here. Daryl comes up to one of the gaps and throws himself through it.

He crosses through the boundary just as he hits the ground of the clearing. He feels currents of power pulse through him just as his head thunks into the ground.

"Thank fuck," Daryl says, muffled, into the dirt.

-

Daryl methodically cleans up the blood and cuts, wincing when he dabs at his shoulder. He'll deal with it later. He breaks up a nearby branch with some difficulty and fashions a makeshift wooden crutch to fit under his arm. That done, he sits cross-legged on a soft pile of leaves and eats some of his stash of jerky. He wishes he'd thought to bring more, but he consoles himself with the fact that he never could've predicted this shit.

It takes him awhile to build up the willpower to carry on, but that's okay. He made it past the fence, so he's got time on his side.

He looks glances back at the forest behind the fence, the last rays of light dying as the sun sets. He can't see any signs of what was chasing him, but that doesn't mean it isn't in there somewhere prowling around for him. He's got to find shelter, defensible shelter, and fast.

The fence is a good sign; he must be nearby something. Why would people put up a fence, an electric fence, no less, if there wasn't?

He treks on and on into the clearing full of high grasses, further and further away from the dark, dangerous forest. The crutch helps a lot, but the tiny marks it leaves in the dirt leave Daryl feeling uneasy. All those years of tracking have made him uncomfortably aware of the marks movement always leaves behind.

The shadows are growing longer and deeper, and his body is past the point of exhaustion. He shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut, willing that something will be there in the distance. A box, a shack, anything.

He takes another hundred steps, another two hundred, and there it is - a great white house, rising up into the dark sky like a mountain, more and more enormous as he stumbles closer. Daryl's eyes are as wide as they can go, staring at it. At the moment, it seems like the biggest thing he's ever seen.

“Climbin’ this is gonna be a bitch,” he says with a tinge of awe.

It is.

Daryl finally drags himself up the last of the stairs with his hunting knife, body shaking with the effort, and sprawls out on the back porch step.

After a moment or two to catch his breath, he digs out his knife from the wooden riser. He winces at the deep scar it leaves in the otherwise spotless smooth white paint. No way that’ll go unnoticed.

He creeps up to the doorjamb. The gap is just over an inch high, which is a tight fit for sure. It takes a minute, but thankfully Daryl does manage to squeeze inside the house.

It's dark inside, even darker than the sky with its setting sun. Daryl supposes it's either empty or everyone's asleep already. He slinks along the wall's white trim into the kitchen. The fridge, oven, and microwave are all humming, which lets Daryl relax a bit. Nobody is going to hear him over all that noise.

He looks around for some sort of opening in the walls, but there's nothing in plain sight. Well, if it's not in plain sight, then maybe... Daryl heaves open a cabinet door and weaves through canned food until he gets to the back panel.

A mouse hole, nibbled right through the wood and plaster.

He steps inside with his knife in front of him, ready for anything, but nothing is inside. There's just a small hollow, with a few inches of tunnel to either side. The mice that made this probably got caught pretty fast and had to move camp.

He pulls some cans in front of the opening, camouflaging it just enough to go unnoticed from the outside. It should do for now, until he can get someplace better. And the insulation padding the tunnel is pink, springy, and soft, which is more than good enough for a bed. He's certainly slept on worse.

Daryl curls up in his little sanctuary, hugging his knife and crossbow to his chest.

Eventually, he drifts away to sleep to the sound of the refrigerator's hypnotic, cyclical drone.

-

Waking up is a different story.

A terrible cranking noise erupts with a high-pitched screech, and the walls start to rumble and shake around him. Daryl starts awake with a gasp, and for a second he doesn't remember where he is. Thankfully, the throb of pain in his shoulder and knee, along with the large tomato sauce label on the canned food right in his face, remind him pretty quickly. His racing heart calms down a bit as the rumbling fades and finally cuts off completely.

Daryl takes a fortifying breath. No wonder small animals are so terrified of this technological shit.

Sounds of running water start up. Daryl must be camped out right underneath the sink, because he can hear water rushing through the pipes nearby. There's a bit of a clatter, some strange, loud metallic gurgling, and a bitter, sharp aroma sinks through the kitchen.

Then Daryl realizes – someone’s making morning coffee.

Moving the canned food without making a sound makes Daryl's arms shake, so he carefully shifts it just enough to let him slip through. He leaves his crossbow in his den - it's just going to get in the way - and unsheathes his knife as he soundlessly makes his way towards the crack of light from the ajar cabinet door.

There's a cowboy boot right in front of him. It's weathered, and connected to a pair of beaten blue jeans with a few tears around the knees. It’s so big that Daryl could drive that shoe like a car if it had wheels and an engine.

The gurgle of the coffee pot finishing up has the boot turning around and taking a few steps to the side. Easy enough to figure out that he's dealing with mugs, pouring, milk, and sugar. Daryl might be a pariah, but even he knows his coffee.

The shoes click smartly over to the small kitchen table. Daryl peeks his head out, just enough to see this giant sit and cross his ankles together under the table.

There are three other chairs, but they're all empty. Daryl isn’t sure if the rest of the family is just sleeping in, or if there isn’t anyone else.

From this far away, Daryl can almost see the entire giant's body. He studies the back of the man's head as he takes careful sips from his steaming coffee mug. Hair's curly and messy, might have a hint of a beard, but basically clean. Body's in a relaxed position but wrapped in the kind of tension Daryl knows intimately. The kind of tension that never leaves, that sleeps in your bones and just waits. Ready for anything.

When Cowboy boots finishes, he stands and scoots his chair backwards with the back of his calves. Daryl is careful to duck behind the door when he clicks over to pour his second cup.

The morning passes like that. Cowboy drinks the whole pot by himself, and nobody else comes downstairs to join him.

Then he throws a coat on, grabs his keys, and leaves the house. Daryl can hear the motor start up and the wheels rolling out over the blacktop.

The house is quiet.

-

It takes an hour or two for Daryl to decide to leave the cabinet. He’s reasonably sure that Cowboy is gone for the day, probably to work. That line of logic eventually wins out over the irrational fear in the back of his mind telling him to curl up in his den, lick his wounds, and hide.

Daryl kneels by the inner cabinet doorframe and starts carving out tiny footholds. He makes sure they’re deep enough for both of his feet to fit inside comfortably. A little precaution never hurt anybody.

As the footholds climb up into a ladder, Daryl climbs with them, carving one step after another. There are probably more than fifty footholds by the time he reaches the cabinet ceiling.

Biting his lip, Daryl sheathes his knife. He’s going to need both hands for this part, and it’s gonna be hell on his shoulder. But he needs to do this. Do or die.

He reaches above his head and grips the thin edge of the French Cove countertop trim. He closes his eyes and throws his entire body out into the empty space of the kitchen, hoping beyond hope that his arms won’t give out and leave a red splat on the clean tiled floor.

They don’t.

He feels his stomach drop out as his whole body swings upwards, feet cutting a crescent through the air until they hit the smooth countertop. The landing hurts, but he figures it’s a better landing up here than it’d be down there on those tiles.

Turns out he was right - his den is almost exactly underneath the sink. Daryl sees a few dirty dishes and a sponge in the basin, which confirms the fact that this guy lives alone. Hell, him and Merle usually have four times the amount of dishes this guy has sitting in the sink, and that's only with two people. One coffee cup, a bowl, and one spoon – that’s kind of pathetic.

"Sorry bastard," Daryl snorts.

There's some dishwashing soap next to the sink handles.

Daryl has to throw his entire body weight at the thing over and over again, but the dishwashing soap bottle finally falls on its side and spits out some soap bubbles. He gathers them up and, after mixing them with a little bit of condensation from the sink basin, rubs them into his open shoulder wound.

It makes Daryl grimace, but it lifts a weight on his mind. If he can get rid of this infection, he'll really have a fighting chance to make it through this.

Whatever this is.

He cleans it a couple more times, until the pain dulls down after he cleans it out. That should be enough to stave off the infection for now, if he can find something to wrap it. He hobbles down the counter, looking for something he can rip and tie. There's coffee beans, flour, all that cooking shit. There - a paper towel roll, mounted on the wall.

Daryl jumps up and yanks the paper down by the edge.

He gets a little more than he was expecting when the roll spins with a rattle, unloading at least four or five pieces on top of him and dumping him on his ass.

“Fuck,” he curses through the layers and layers of heavy paper towels blanketing him like an avalanche. “This is fucking bullshit.”

He crawls his way out of paper towel hell on his elbows, dragging his legs behind him. He leaves a spotty red trail on the paper towels where his shoulder drags against them, which he files away in the back of his mind to deal with later.

For now, he methodically rips strips out of a corner until he’s got enough for eight bandage rolls – enough to last him at least a few months. He folds some over each other to make a rudimentary swathe, weaving them together like grass in a basket. He presses it to his wound before tying it in place with more strips.

That done, he hangs his feet over the countertop precipice and lays flat on his back.

He can really make this work.

His first order of business: a sustainable pulley system.

-

Daryl fashions a bucket out of an empty Half & Half creamer container. He pokes four holes around the rim with his knife before sawing down the sharp plastic edges.

Then he grabs the steel wool scourer lying forlornly in a wet puddle behind the faucet. He starts unspooling it bit by bit, smoothing out the kinks to straighten it out. It’s grueling work, as the steel wool is all tangled up in itself.

He throws the end of the line over the edge of the countertop when it’s taller than he is, and gets lost in the work. His mind goes blank as his hands go through the motions. It’s oddly calming.

Hours later, the steel thread reaches the tile floor with a metallic clack. He ties a knot there, pulls up the entire line back onto the countertop, and keeps going on the other side. He stops when the straightened wire is twice as long as the countertop. His knife cuts through the wire after he bends it back and forth in the same spot a few times to weaken the steel. Then he wraps it all up into one enormous heap and slings it over his body.

Daryl bites down on his blade and swings down the trim to the lower cabinet door.

Unfortunately, he misses his target.

He clings to the doorframe for dear life, slipping down the sheer wood surface faster and faster, scrabbling desperately for purchase.

A moment later, his hand manages to catch on one of his carved-in footholds, and his whole body jerks to a stop.

He breathes a sigh of relief through his nose and starts climbing back up to the top rung. That could’ve gone way worse.

Glancing up at the cabinet ceiling, it looks like Daryl has got to carve the pulley grooves right into the wood. There’s nothing else that he can use that’ll permanently stay up there. He can’t risk anything falling apart when he’s in transit.

Daryl narrows his eyes. He picks two spots in the ceiling alongside the footholds, right up against the wall where it won’t be seen. He gets to work, hollowing out two scoops at around the same size about half an inch apart from each other. He carves out a short tunnel between them, which is tough to do because he’s carving it deep inside the wood and can’t see shit.

At length, he can fit his whole arm through it, like a worm wriggling in and out of an apple. He’s tired as hell and his arm hurts, but the sight of his fingers sticking out the other side of his makeshift channel makes him grin.

Next, he focuses on the pulley’s groove, careful to make it smooth, straight, and symmetrical. It’ll last much longer this way. He feeds the wire into it, tying a small hook knot every few inches that go by. The heavy weight of the wire lightens as more and more of it dangles from his makeshift pulley. When it hits the halfway mark, he tosses down the rest of the wire that was still over his shoulder and climbs down the rungs to the cabinet floor. As he goes, he makes sure to finish off all the hook knots on the closer side of the wire.

On the ground level, he carves another pulley burrow in the wood. It’s easier this time, thank fuck. When he finishes up the groove along the inside of the tunnel, he takes the ends of the wire, runs them through the pulley from opposite sides, and ties them snugly together with the fattest, sturdiest knot he knows – a double figure-8 fisherman’s knot.

With the pulley system essentials all put together, Daryl can attach the carriages. He gets the bucket he made out of the Half & Half container from the counter, winds some of the leftover steel wool wire through the holes, and ties that into the top hook on his pulley.

Now, to test it.

Holding his breath, Daryl puts one foot down into the plastic cup and weaves one hand into a hook on the other side of the wire. He carefully, tentatively puts all his weight on it. There’s a bit of a dip, but his grip on the hook keeps the pulley fairly still.

Relieved, he starts lowering himself down hand-over-hand from hook to hook. It works better than he expected.

He takes a well-deserved break after that. He’s got his own little elevator right here in chez cabinet, after all.

-

After a long nap back in the den, Daryl wakes up with sharp pangs of hunger in his belly. He hasn’t felt this in a long time, not since he started hunting for his own food.

“Ugh, great,” he grumbles. “S’ just what I needed.”

He scrubs at his eyes and ignores his complaining shoulder and twinging knee as he shuffles over to the elevator. He drags himself up to the top, hand-over-hand, and swings onto the countertop with less difficulty than last time.

Digging through the pantry shelves next to the cups and mugs yields some promising results. There’s plenty of dried fruit, flakes cereal, and assorted nuts. Someone could live off of this stuff for a long time.

After he piles up enough food on the counter to feed an army of ants, but not enough to let Cowboy notice the difference, he bites into a fat cashew that’s nearly as big as his head.

It’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Hands down.

-

Daryl organizes an entire pantry of his own down in the den.

It takes a little tunnel expansion, though, which is arduous. He hacks at the insulation foam on one end of the tunnel, clearing a path parallel to the wall. When it’s far enough away from the den mouth, far enough that he can’t see the opposite end of the tunnel, Daryl starts cutting deeper. Larger and larger chunks of foam board go over his shoulder until he hits the bare brick. It’s colder over here now without the insulation foam, which should help preserve his food a little longer.

When he takes a step back and surveys his progress with his hands on his hips, Daryl blinks. This room is bigger than the RV where he and Merle stayed for a good six or seven years. Well, if that RV were shrunk down to size.

He shakes his head. Whatever. Don’t matter.

He uses the rest of the plastic Half & Half cups as storage bins, filling them up with separate foods and stacking them up on top of each other. He only has six cups right now, not even close to filling up the space, but he feels like he’s gonna have a steady supply of those. He’s got time to fill up this whole room top to bottom. If he runs out of room getting ready for winter, maybe he can start burying cups in strategic hiding spots.

Daryl snorts.

Burying food for winter. He’s like a fucking squirrel.

-

He gathers up all the excess insulation foam and wonders what to do with it. The larger chunks, he might be able to pare down into furniture. The smaller bits, they might be good for stuffing a mattress or pillow or something. If he can find something to stuff it into, that is.

He throws it in a pile on the empty end of the tunnel, which he’s vaguely decided is eventually going to be his bedroom.

Hell, mini furniture design’ll probably turn out to be fun.

-

Daryl goes up to the countertop one more time that day to collect some water from the sink.

It takes some strategic thinking to be able to turn the faucet on, and even more to redirect the flow of water to the side of the sink instead of into the basin with just a plastic knife, but he manages it.

Drinking greedily from the stream sates his thirst for now, but Daryl knows he’ll need water in storage too. For now, he just fills up the water skin he always carries on his hip before turning off the sink. It’ll be enough for the night. He’ll wait for tomorrow’s plastic Half & Half cups to take down more.

There’s a window behind the sink with a wide, white sill.

Daryl takes a seat there and sips at his water, enjoying the weight of a full stomach and the lush feeling of water running down his parched throat.

With a contented sigh, Daryl turns and looks out the window, towards the horizon. He’s always loved the way clouds catch color, and the way tree branches climb up into the sky. The day is darkening around the edges. The clouds are heavy with purple, stained with pink, and gilded with gold. Just looking at it calms him down, making him think of a thousand past sunsets just like this one.

It’s at that peaceful, almost happy moment when Cowboy’s car pulls up the asphalt driveway with an angry, sputtering engine.

Daryl jolts with shock. He’d almost forgotten about Cowboy coming back, and his shit is still all over the place. He glances up at the kitchen clock. It’s almost eight.

“...Shit.”

In a mad dash, Daryl cleans up after himself, tries and fails to get the dishwashing soap bottle standing, and takes the paper towels down to his den to use as blankets, bandages, and whatever else he can think of. All the while listening to Cowboy’s footsteps moving up the stairs and through the halls.

He rapidly slides down the pulley with the last of the paper towels and scurries back into the depths of the cabinet before he can be spotted.

He’s safe.

Wish his nerves knew that as well as he did. His heart won’t stop thundering in his chest for a long time afterwards.

Daryl wraps a paper towel around himself and curls up into a ball on his pile of foam, being careful not to jar his injured shoulder. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, deliberately willing himself to relax, and listens to the familiar sounds of someone starting up a dinner.

Daryl drifts away into dreams soon after.

-

The next morning is... slow.

Daryl is groggy from the mind-boggling twelve hours of sleep he’s just had, so his heavy eyelids keep falling closed as he wraps his shoulder with fresh bandages. He scrubs at them halfheartedly until they feel normal again before he gets started for the day.

As expected, another six Half & Half cups are laying on the countertop. There’s a drop or two of milk left inside one before Daryl sucks it up. Other than that, they’re all empty.

He fills them up with water and takes them down into his den’s cellar.

After that, he’s at a loss.

He doesn’t know what else to do. He’s already got everything he really needs for basic survival. Shelter, food, and water. Other than that... He’s got nothing. It’s weird. It’s not like he’s bored or agitated, he’s used to those cutting away at him, no, he’s just... it’s like his mind’s somehow gone hushed and gentler than usual.

He perches on the edge of a chicken noodle soup can, and just sits there for a while. Takes a bite of cashew and a shot of water every now and again. It’s quiet in the house, so quiet he can hear birds chirping from outside the kitchen window.

Daryl’s really not used to feeling... whatever this is.

It’s... nice.

-

The next week or two go pretty much the same.

Cowboy wakes up around eight every morning, leaves, comes back around eight every night, makes dinner, goes to sleep a few hours later. It’s pretty consistent, which makes it easy to get used to. The coffee bean grinder gets less terrifying every single time. He’s started thinking of it as more of an alarm clock than an earthquake.

Other than Cowboy, Daryl’s pretty much got everything under control.

He has enough of everything he needs, so he barely leaves his den at all. He mostly just sleeps, eats, and waits for his wounds to close up. Yeah, every so often he sneaks out to take a shit, or he climbs up to the countertop and cleans off his wound, but that’s about it. It’s a pretty laid-back time.

And it shows. Every time he wakes up, everything hurts a little less.

Slowly but surely, he’s healing.

-

He runs out of water in the next two weeks. Has to go make a countertop run. Everything is a helluva lot easier to do, now that his shoulder’s closed up and doesn’t scream when he moves it. Still, he hasn’t really been up and around as much lately, and the trip tires him out more than he thought it would.

He decides to keep slumming around this place until his shoulder’s back at a hundred percent.

-

It takes a few more weeks for that to happen.

Waiting so long, lying around in the same place, and doing basically nothing for so long has got Daryl feeling restless. When he finally tears off his bandages for good, he can’t wait to get out and explore.

There’s not a single pang of pain in him anymore, not even in his oldest, deepest scars, and he’s jonesing for some adventure. He slings his crossbow over his back, sheathes his knife, and jumps out of the cabinet onto the tiled kitchen floor with a bright grin on his face.

Casing the joint on the ground floor is pretty easy. There’s the kitchen, the living room, the dining room, and a tiny coat closet in the front hall across from the door. The real trouble comes with the stairs. Daryl doesn’t want to make more marks on the wood; might get him noticed.

So instead, he throws away his dignity and jumps up on his tiptoes to grab the first step’s edge. He pulls himself up on the tread’s landing with some effort.

One thing’s for sure. Living here’s gonna make Daryl real fuckin’ good at parkour.

A loud, unexpected chuckle bursts out of him.

The sound surprises him. He realizes that he hasn’t spoken in awhile.

He’s huffing and puffing by the time he makes it to the upstairs landing, with the hint of a smile still chasing the corners of his eyes. Fourteen stairs in all. Pretty tough, but not impossible. Daryl puts a hand on the smooth blue wall, supporting his shaking legs, and catches his breath.

Turns out the upstairs is pretty small, too. There are two bedrooms and a bathroom, and that’s it. Everything’s pretty sparse up here; he finds some buttons, some string, some bubble wrap, and that’s it. The only things that stick out are the pictures tacked up on the wall over the bed in the east room.

Daryl’s gonna go out on a limb here and guess that it’s Cowboy’s bedroom.

He squints up at the pictures. They’re old and filled with creases, like they’ve been folded up more times than he can count. There’s a kid and Cowboy smiling together, his arm slung over the kid’s shoulders. Must be his son. The other picture has a few more people. Along with Cowboy and the kid, there’s a pretty woman holding a newborn baby. They’re all sitting together at a park, having a picnic on a sunny summer day. It looks awful nice, like one of them perfect families Daryl’s seen in TV commercials and magazine ads.

Daryl frowns and thinks about the four empty chairs circling the kitchen table downstairs. Maybe that kind of perfect family ain’t meant to last long. Not in real life.

He heads back downstairs in a heavy mood, even though he’s got a pretty good haul of junk to bring back to the den.

-

When Cowboy is walking around the kitchen later that evening, Daryl takes more of an active interest.

He creeps up and watches Cowboy from the cracked cabinet door as he roots through the refrigerator for ingredients. He pours some milk into a glass, throws some frozen lasagna into the microwave, and voila, dinner.

Daryl watches Cowboy eat at the kitchen table, sitting in the same exact chair he always sits in. He wonders which chair used to belong to Cowboy’s kid, which one belonged to his wife, and which one belonged to the toddler.

Cowboy’s shoulders are stooped in a sad, defeated line. Every bite of food he takes is like watching a stilted machine go through the motions.

Daryl averts his eyes and slinks back into his den for the night.

-

It rains. Nothing heavy, just a light spring shower.

He hears it sprinkling onto the kitchen window like little music notes before Cowboy even starts moving around upstairs. Waking up to that is definitely gentler than waking up to the coffee grinder. He’s always liked the rain, except for when it washes him out on a hunt. It’s soothing. Cleansing.

Reminds him of a time before everything, one time in particular where he curled up by his momma’s legs and high heels and listened to her pick at a borrowed guitar.

Daryl sits up on the windowsill that day, and idly hums along with the raindrops as he whittles down a stick he’d found out in the yard. He’s thinking of using a whole bunch of planks to give his den wooden floors and walls. Maybe even a bed frame.

He keeps an eye on the window as he works. Weather like this, there’s bound to be a rainbow.

Lucky for him, turns out there’s four.

-

Cowboy gets back home and his boots squeak wet on the floors instead of his usual sharp click.

When he sits down to dinner, Cowboy’s still got dark, damp hair and rivulets running down his neck. He kicks off his wet boots under the table and inhales his hot microwaved meal at record time. Daryl winces when Cowboy shoves a still-bubbling bite of macaroni into his mouth; that’s got to hurt. But all he does in response to the burn is hiss a little. Then he just keeps on eating.

Daryl chews his lip. It didn’t rain all that hard today, but Cowboy’s sopping wet. Dripping all over the tiled floor, even.

He figures Cowboy must work in the outdoors.

-

A few days later, there’s a banging on the front door around noon.

Daryl shoots up straight with wide eyes.

“Rick!” a man’s loud voice shouts. “Rick! You there? Rick!” He bangs on the door a few more times. “Rick, you ornery bastard, open up. It’s Shane.”

Since nobody but Daryl’s home, there’s no answer.

“Open the damn door, Rick, I just wanna talk to you. You got your time, okay? I gave you time, didn’t I?”

He’s pretty persistent, Daryl’ll give him that. After another ten minutes of talking shit to the closed front door, Shane finally gives it up.

“Maybe next week, then, huh?” he sighs with a note of defeat.

The porch creaks as Shane mutters his way back to his car. Daryl hears him drive away on some silent engine. Probably one of them hybrid cars, if he had to guess. He settles back down with a plump raisin when the house is calm again.

So.

Cowboy’s name is Rick.

-

A thicket branch snags on Daryl’s clothes the next time he’s out collecting sticks in the backyard. The thorn tears right through the worn fabric of his sleeve and leaves a white scratch on his arm.

It’s pretty annoying, but at least it doesn’t break the skin.

Small mercies, or whatever.

Daryl patches it up the best he can with some of that string he found, but he knows the shirt’s not going to last much longer. He’s got to make some for himself, looks like.

There’s only a couple coats hanging up high in the front hall closet, so that’s a dead-end. He digs through the clothes in the upstairs for materials next, though, and that trip’s more successful.

He gets a few more buttons to add to his growing collection from the bedroom closet, two small black ones and one large green one. And there’s a fraying tag inside one of the button-up shirts; he cuts it off the lining and stuffs it away. He can use it for string.

Shifting his grip on his new haul, Daryl steps out of the bedroom and heads back towards the stairwell.

The hallway is filled with light today, he notices. Much brighter than usual. He remembers this hallway full of overlapping, dank shadows, but right now, all Daryl can see are dust motes dancing in the air like fireflies. It’s filtering in through the second bedroom door – which Daryl thinks is strange. He’s never seen this door left open like this in all the weeks that he’s been here.

Daryl hesitates in front of the doorframe, eyes straying over the wooden floor glowing gold in the sunlight before landing on a closed cardboard box.

That’s new.

Daryl’s eyes flicker on the thick, plastic packing tape sealing up all the edges. There’s a postal stamp and sticker on the side. Sent straight from Atlanta, high-priority mail.

Looks like Rick’s got a little project going on.

And Daryl has no clue what it could be.

He runs his tongue over his teeth. There’s an itch building in the back of Daryl’s mind, telling him to drop everything and find out what’s inside. Just take out his knife, cut out a sliver of cardboard, and peek on in there real fast. Just to get enough of a feel for what’s in there.

He doesn’t.

-

The den is starting to look more like the inside of a cottage instead of a mouse hole.

Daryl’s meticulously carved wooden beams are even, white planks that make level floors, sturdy walls, and a rudimentary vaulted ceiling. He’s started building a box for a bed frame out of the leftover wood, and has thoughts of a little worktable that could fit in the cellar.

Overall, it’s clean, neat, and comfortable.

He’s pretty proud of it.

-

Of course, once Daryl is really starting to get comfortable, the universe fucks it up. Just business as usual.

Daryl is munching on an afternoon snack, lounging on the kitchen windowsill like it’s an overstuffed couch, when he hears an odd noise.

He stiffens up immediately.

That wasn’t just the tick of the clock or the buzz of the fridge. It was movement, a skitter. Scampering paws.

Something else is in the house.

His eyes track the sound towards the living room. He’s triple-checked the whole house for mouse holes almost obsessively, and he knows he’s got the only one. So whatever it is, it’s new in town. And, going from the scratching and biting, it’s trying to make itself a dent in the white plaster wall behind the couch for its new home.

Daryl’s eyes narrow.

He’s spent _months_ in this house, building himself a cozy den and having the pick of the pantry. Yeah, maybe the big stuff in the house is all Rick’s, but the small stuff? The leftover crumbs, the cubbies, the hiding places? Those are all Daryl’s.

Fuck if he’s gonna share with a goddamn _mouse_.

-

Daryl loads up his crossbow, sharpens his knife on a pebble, and ties the large green button he’d found to his arm with a rubber band. He figures if he’s gonna fight something huge that has sharp teeth and claws, he might as well take a shield. ‘S better than getting his arm ripped off.

He steals through the kitchen and the front hall without a sound, slipping over the creaky floors like a brush of wind.

He peeks around the corner into the living room. It’s clear from what he can see, but he can hear the tiny scuffling sounds from behind the couch from here.

Daryl advances into the living room with his crossbow at the ready. Every step is measured, slow, even, and in a low stance. A Dixon ain’t gonna be caught off guard and killed by a mouse, no sir.

He sidles up to the back of the couch, and spies the chewed-up hole in the wall plaster behind it. Chewing and scratching are coming from it like there’s no tomorrow, so there’s no doubt about it – the mouse is right where Daryl expected him to be.

Unfortunately, the couch is two inches off the back wall, which is too tight a fit to shoot the crossbow. He needs at least three to aim and reload comfortably.

He decides to bait it out.

“Hey asshole!” Daryl hollers, stomping on the ground with a boot with his eyes trained unerringly on the mouse hole entrance. “Yo, Tom and Jerry! This block ain’t up for sale.”

The sounds inside the wall drop to nothing. Daryl finds that encouraging. Means it can hear him, at least.

“I’m kicking you the fuck out,” he calls. “Ain’t no more room for squatters! ‘S all taken!”

He hopes it takes the bait and decides to fight for its territory. If it bunkers down and waits for a direct assault, he’s gonna be shit out of luck.

He waits for what seems like an eternity.

Daryl tsks and kicks at the wall. “Come on, you fucker, come on, Mickey Mouse,” he goads. “I got your eviction notice right here!” He caresses the trigger on the crossbow. “Come _on_.”

There’s a stirring of movement.

Daryl breaks out into a relieved grin. “Fuck, yes.”

The bolt is trained right on the mouth of the mouse hole, ready to fire at any second. Daryl steadies his breathing and focuses on that one point. However it comes out, no matter how fast or terrifying, all he’s gonna do is focus on the shot.

The tips of the mouse’s white whiskers slide into view, along with its sniffing pink nose. It’s gonna be real careful about this, it seems. This mouse has probably gotten tangled up in fights over shit like this before.

Little black eyes come into view, flickering back and forth.

Daryl can pinpoint the exact moment when it spots him. Its hackles raise, along with every strand of fur on its body.

God, it’s huge.

Daryl’s taken down deer that weigh more than him, but this mouse is like a fucking grizzly bear. It’s over twice his size. The mouse lowers its center of gravity, getting ready to run at him. He knows if it gets past his bolts without a scratch, he’s a goner.

He takes a deep breath, refusing to get rattled, and keeps his focus on the target.

“Bring it, Mr. Jingles,” he snaps, making sure to add a throaty growl underneath his words. “We don’t got all day, here!”

That does it.

The mouse snarls and charges for him, lumbering straight down the narrow channel between the wall and the couch.

Daryl lines up his shot, waits for it to get close, and fires.

The bolt goes right through Stuart Little’s right eye, making it roar and jerk its head back before its momentum crashes it down to the floor, leaving its corpse to slide to a stop in a blooming pool of its own blood.

Daryl decides to make its fur into a coat.

-

After he takes down Chuck E. Cheese, Daryl gets a little bolder about moving freely around the house.

Instead of slipping around with his back to the wall, eyes darting about him for a sudden ambush, he starts wandering around like it’s his own house.

He hangs out in the living room, flipping through the pages of an old National Geographic magazine he finds on the coffee table. It takes some effort to heave the pages over each other, but it’s worth it to look at all the glossy larger than life photographs from all over the world. The wide, endless Sahara with a sandstorm miles away in the distance. A deep lake that’s frozen over, with colorful fish still swimming around in the water underneath. A flock of butterflies migrating to South America like a tsunami wave.

Daryl combs through an article on an endangered species of white tigers in India, rubbing a thumb absentmindedly over the delicate stripes patterning the newborn baby cub’s face as he soaks up every word.

-

Daryl doesn’t feel as cooped up, now that he’s got free reign of the house.

He starts going outside more. Does all the little things he used to, when he went hunting. Checks for paw prints, listens to bird calls, munches on edible herbs. It feels so extraordinarily _normal_ that it gets him a little choked up sometimes.

One night, he steals a tiny plastic Ziploc bag from one of the kitchen drawers, and hunts down fireflies in the grass. He captures six, even though they’re as big as squirrels and fast as hell. He pokes some holes in the bag, slings it over his shoulder, and brings it into the den.

Instead of settling down to sleep that night, he watches the dance of shadows and the flicker of fireflies in the heart of his home like it’s a movie screen.

-

He lets the fireflies go the next day. He’ll just catch some more later, when he’s in the mood for a nice evening.

-

The Shane guy comes to the door again.

He’s quieter this time, doesn’t yell as much, but he tries for longer.

“Rick,” Shane pleads. “Please, don’t do this to me, man. Don’t shut me out.”

Looks like Shane honestly believes Rick is always here, like he can hear every word Shane is saying to him and isn’t answering on purpose, like he’s permanently haunting the house instead of just coming and going like a normal person. Daryl wonders why Rick hasn’t told Shane that he has a job, that he leaves to go to work every day.

“Please, Rick, talk to me. I gave you time like you wanted, you’ve got to let me in.” Shane’s forehead thunks against the door as his voice dwindles into a whisper. “Come on, brother. I need to know you’re okay. Just lemme see you’re okay. Please, we don’t even have to talk, you don’t have to say a thing, if that’s what you want. Just let me see you.”

Shane’s voice breaks on the last part, but after that, he doesn’t say anything else. Just sits on the porch steps for an hour or two. It’s a long time before Daryl hears him finally drive away.

-

It’s ten o’clock at night on the same day Shane cries on the front porch, and Rick still hasn’t gotten home yet.

Daryl frowns at the clock. Sometimes Rick can be a little late getting back from work if the weather’s bad, but today was sunny and dry. The guy’s like well-oiled clockwork; for him to change it up like this is just fucking unnatural.

He starts tapping his foot nervously. Who knows, maybe the guy’s just fallen asleep on the job or something. It happens to everyone at some point, even guys like Rick. Daryl has been noticing the drawn, tight feeling in the set of Rick’s shoulders recently, and the tension around his eyes. The loneliness. And then there’s the whole Shane thing.

Maybe... Daryl swallows down a sudden uneasiness. He’s known a few people that had nothing to do but wallow in guilt and misery, and he knows exactly what that can do to someone.

Maybe the sorry bastard went and offed himself.

Just putting the thought together makes Daryl scoff and shake his head vehemently. “Rick wouldn’t do that,” he tells himself firmly. “He _wouldn’t_.”

Even so, Daryl ends up sitting in the living room window facing towards the road, watching the hillcrest for headlights. It’s dark as pitch out there, no lights for miles around the house. Just goes to show how far out this place is from civilization, that the only light he can see from outside’s the moon and the stars when the clouds clear. He unconsciously starts picking at a loose paint chip on the sill as he sentries, gaze tied to where he knows the road turns out of the woods. He sits there a long time.

When the brights of Rick’s old Ford finally flicker through the forest cover and peek into the gravel drive, Daryl’s twitchy, taut shoulders relax.

“See, told ya so,” Daryl sniffs dismissively. “Right as rain.”

He gives himself a satisfied nod before hopping up and heading to the den.

-

The next day, Rick doesn’t leave for work.

Daryl knows something is wrong the minute he wakes up. Sunlight is already peeking into the cabinet, but Rick hasn’t even started up a coffee pot.

He peeks into the kitchen, but it’s empty. Then he circles the whole floor, but Rick’s nowhere to be found. He climbs up the couch to look out the front window, and Rick’s shitty Ford is still parked there. So he’s definitely around. Somewhere.

Daryl cautiously heads up the stairs to the second floor.

Anxiety pounds through in his veins. He’s never been up here when Rick was still in the house. It’s dangerous new territory, and his body knows it. It’s telling him to scram before something happens, get out of here to protect himself and run far, far away.

But for some reason, Daryl grits his teeth and keeps going until he hits the landing.

Rick’s bedroom door is cracked open at the end of the hallway. Daryl creeps towards it, extra aware of the noises he’s making. The closer he gets, the tighter his chest gets with apprehension.

Daryl pokes his head into Rick’s bedroom.

There, curled up in blankets on the ratty mattress lying flat on the floor, is Rick. He seems fine, nothing’s the matter, he’s just...

Sleeping.

Daryl can’t help but stare.

He’s never seen Rick’s face like this, head on, smoothed out from all its usual intensity. He steals in closer, right up to the edge of the mattress.

The sun hits the contours of Rick’s face the way it does in old paintings.

Daryl’s seen some art on TV a couple times, when Merle and him watched a bunch of police procedural shows. There were some crime scenes in art museums, one of those fancy kinds of places people like Daryl aren’t welcome. He didn’t care about the plot of the episode like Merle did, really, but he’d watched it anyway, and somewhere near the end of the episode, the camera’d panned over a wall lined with expensive art pieces.

He hadn’t even really been paying attention to it, he was probably more interested in drinking his beer or something at the time, but all of a sudden –

Daryl’s eyes caught on a painting.

It was austere, kind of bland compared with some of the other more colorful paintings alongside it, but Daryl couldn’t look away. His gaze lingered over the sharp profile of the man at the desk, the glow of his skin from the window, the soft weight of the globe on his desk, the stark shadows filling in the corners of the room.

Daryl looks at Rick now, sprawled in bed as the sun shines down on him, with his illuminated eyelashes fluttering and his soft skin shimmering and his red lips shining, and thinks –

 _Beautiful_.

Then Rick shifts in his sleep, rubbing his scruff against his pillow, and the moment’s broken – Daryl’s reminded of where he is, how he could get caught and kicked to the curb if Rick so much as opens his eyes, and a spike of fear runs through him.

He darts out of there like his ass is on fire.

-

Daryl thinks that once Rick wakes up, he’s going to leave for work like he always does.

He doesn’t.

Instead, Rick stumbles into the kitchen around two in the afternoon in his pajamas – which, Daryl learns, means shirtless with loose grey sweatpants. He takes his coffee black instead of adding milk and sugar, and leans against the counter and looking out the window as he drinks it instead of sitting at the table and staring at the wall.

Daryl watches him from the shadows with furrowed eyebrows, and wonders what happened last night. Something must’ve.

Rick finishes off the coffee and, to Daryl’s surprise, starts frying up eggs and bacon on the stove.

Eggs and bacon.

Daryl shakes his head. This is the same man who went months on end eating cold cereal for breakfast and reheated lasagna for dinner. Now he’s a regular Chef Boyardee.

Rick hums a little to himself as he flips the eggs, just a little tune Daryl sort of recognizes. Something that’s a little sad, almost bittersweet. He casts his mind around, but can’t remember what it’s from.

Then Daryl realizes that he’s never actually heard Rick’s voice before this moment. It’s deeper and smoother than he expected.

He likes it.

-

The day goes by slowly. Rick throws on a t-shirt and watches TV on the living room couch for a bit, flipping between some sports games and the news. He snacks on stuff from the pantry every so often, and cracks open a beer sometime during the third quarter.

It’s driving Daryl fucking crazy, not knowing.

But he’s a hunter. Patience is his longtime companion.

So he watches and waits.

-

The truth comes out after dinner, when Rick makes a phone call.

Yeah, a phone call. Before this, Daryl didn’t even think he _owned_ a fucking phone. Today’s been full of surprises.

“Hi,” Rick says into his cell. “It’s me. Yeah.”

Fuck. He’s got a drawl, a Georgian drawl. Every damn word’s a caress. Daryl hates him a little bit right then, just for being so perfect.

“Shane, Jesus, I didn’t know you came all the way out here,” Rick groans, running a hand through his hair. “No, I didn’t. If I was, I would’ve answered the door, I’m not a goddamn teenager. I’m telling you, I wasn’t at home, okay, I was at work.”

Daryl’s ears prick up. Work, huh. Looks like he’s gonna start getting some answers right about now. It’s about time; he’s been waiting weeks to learn this shit.

“Yeah, _work_ , asshole. I do. I’ve been working the beat in the little nearby town. Yeah, every day of the week, plus overtime. And before you ask, _no_ , I’m not, and yes, they approved it months ago. It ain’t Atlanta, it won’t kill me. Doing a whole lot of nothing, though, that might do the trick.” He lets out a humorless chuckle.

Working the beat. Rick must be a cop.

Daryl thinks on that, turns it over in his mind. He... doesn’t quite know how to feel about it. It’s odd. He’s never _known_ a cop before.

Pacing a little around the kitchen, Rick sighs. “Yeah, you did, and it was real good of you, brother. I needed the time away from...” he waves his hand in the air. “...Everything. You know?”

Shane does seem to know, going by the way Rick’s shoulders sag down in some kind of relief at his answer.

“Thanks. Thank you.”

Then Rick hesitates, and the sound of his voice tightens a little. “And... Shane, did you... D’you know about last night? They tell you?”

Daryl’s head whips up. He prays that whoever they are, they haven’t told Shane shit, because whatever happened last night needs to spill out of Rick’s mouth, pronto.

“Uh, okay,” Rick says uneasily. “Then I should be the one to tell you, I guess. I mean, it wasn’t anything like what happened, uh. Before. So don’t freak out, okay?” He starts shifting his weight from foot to foot nervously.

“I... had another incident yesterday, saw some more of the – okay, Shane, Jesus Christ, I just asked you not to freak out now, can you do that?” Rick grinds his teeth before he continues. “Right. Okay. I guess I should’ve prefaced with this, but okay. Nobody got hurt, I didn’t hurt anybody. I’m fine, everyone around me is fine. Okay? But yesterday, I had another one.”

Rick groans. “Yeah, yes, of _course_ I’ve been taking it every single damn day, they have a whole fucking pillbox with my name on it that they have to refill every month. Pretty hard to miss. Not to mention the nurse stares me down until she sees me swallow a whole cup of the damn things.”

He rubs a hand over his face tiredly. “So I’ve been taking these pills for months now, Shane, and I hadn’t seen a thing the whole time I’ve been here, right. The doctors thought I was makin’ real progress. So did I, s’ a matter of fact. Until.”

Daryl’s eyes are glued to Rick’s profile as he pauses again.

He takes a shaky breath, and says, “Until yesterday, and I swear, Shane, I swear I been working on this, it’s all I’ve been doing out here besides the beat, but I saw it anyway, it was there, I could’ve sworn it was – ”

His voice breaks off, and he visibly reins himself under control again. “I could’ve sworn it was real. Like... like, like with the time with Lori.

“Look, Shane, all I’m saying is – no, not Lori, I haven’t been seeing Lori around here, okay? If I had, I’d have called her and you about it, right away, like I’m supposed to. No, I mean, it felt real like Lori did that time, is all. I didn’t see her, I saw – ”

Rick cuts himself off. “I saw,” he says in a smaller voice. “I saw a man in town.”

He shakes his head. “But it ain’t a man, Shane. Nobody else can see him but me, all right? I know these people, I’ve spent time here with them, and they couldn’t. It was like he was floatin’ in the corner of my eye all day, following me around. And – ” He takes a deep breath. “He – something about him, it ain’t right. I can _feel_ it. He’s got this smile on his face, and this – this weird knife in his hand, and it’s like he’s covered in blood but I can’t see it, and – I know it doesn’t make sense. The doc says it’s a psychotic paranoid delusion, brought on by – shit, I don’t know the words, guess it don’t matter. Basically, he says my mind is makin’ him up, and makin’ him a threat on purpose. And I get that, I do. Makes sense, and it reminds me of some of the stuff I’ve seen before, y’know? Like with the bolt cutters in high school. Remember that? With Mr. Shenly?

“Yeah. Exactly. So I see him when I get into town, like he’s right behind me, all the time, and I think – Shane, it’s like I’ve got a target painted on my back and he’s gonna get me the second I let my guard down. He’s watching me, and he’s gonna jump in any second he can.

“And yeah, yesterday was the only day I’ve seen him, but it wore me down, man. Wore me down. I talked to the doctor for a long time about it, and he said...” Rick trails off. He looks so tired all of a sudden, like the fight’s gone out of him. “I’m going off the medication for awhile, going to slowly wean off it, and start up a different one. He doesn’t think this one is working right. So we’ll start a different pill, maybe try some other therapeutic techniques. Hope it’s a better fit this time.”

Rick taps his fingers on the table in a disjointed rhythm. “It’s... God, Shane, I thought I was gettin’ somewhere, was fixing up. Turns out nothing’s really changed since I left.”

He hangs his head, listening for a moment. “I know,” he says quietly. “Love you too, brother. Tell Lori and Carl I love ‘em, would you, and give little Judy a kiss from me, huh?”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his sad eyes. “Bye, Shane.”

Then Rick ends the call, and puts his phone back in his pocket like it’s as heavy as a brick. The beep breaks Daryl out of a trance – he sucks in a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

The description Rick gave – the man he saw following him. Smiling, holding a knife, covered in invisible blood?

It’s the same man Daryl’s got to thank for being a whopping four inches tall.


	2. Lachesis

Daryl sits out on the back porch after Rick goes to bed, flicking his centimeter-long lighter until the cherry of one of his last cigarettes lights up the cup of his hand. He lays his head back against the trim behind him.

Pale smoke issues out of his mouth, crawls upwards into the dark sky like vines. He watches it go.

Now, Daryl ain’t ever been the type to believe in magic, or in God, or anything like that.

But he’s been a hunter ever since he can remember, and a bowman to boot, and if hunters are the most superstitious sons of bastards you’ll ever meet, bowman are five times worse. Little rituals, good luck charms, fortuitous signs – you name it, there’s a bowman out there somewhere that’ll swear by it until he’s rolling over in his grave.

Hell, he’s seen a chupacabra before, with its disfigured hide and sharp, spiky spinal column sticking out its back like knives. He saw it sucking the blood out of the neck of a goat through a clearing, and didn’t think twice. Just believed it soon as looking at it, knew in his bones what he was seeing was true. But he still didn’t believe in any of that hoodoo crap, or any of the other mumbo-jumbo shit he’s been told since he was a kid.

Not ‘til now.

Well, it’s awful hard to argue with the fact that he’s been shrunk down into a fucking gremlin. It’s a pretty fucking cut and dry situation. He supposes once anyone gets cursed this bad, they ain’t gonna be able to brush off magic like it’s a fairytale anymore. Don’t get that luxury. It’s too damn real.

Rick, though.

Rick seems like the kinda guy that wouldn’t take stock in a fuckin’ four leaf clover, let alone a curse from a fuckin’ witch, and he’s got to deal with a whole other level of fucked up shit on top of that. It’s one thing to get cursed with something tangible and irrefutable; Rick’s got something worse, something making him question his own sanity every minute of the day. Truth be told, Daryl doesn’t envy him one bit when it comes to comparing curses. Least bein’ small is something he can partly control and work around.

He stubs out his cigarette butt on a nearby floorboard. Once he might’ve been afraid it’d give him away, leaving marks around like this, but Daryl knows Rick ain’t ever gonna notice.

Nah. He’s got other shit to worry about.

Daryl flicks his cigarette butt into the dirt with a tired sigh. If he doesn’t do something, Rick is gonna get killed for sure.

-

That night, Daryl packs a little survival bag. Fills up his flask with water, sharpens his knife, whittles tiny arrows, the works.

He also tucks his lucky buckeyes into a hidden crevice in the seam.

Just in case.

-

Before the sun comes up, Daryl sneaks out into the open before Rick can come downstairs. He sidles over to the front hall, where Rick keeps his keys, holster belt, and coat for work, and slips into the biggest pouch on the whole belt.

He waits there for at least a half hour, dozing on and off. After Rick finishes off his last cup of coffee, his footsteps make their way over to Daryl.

Gravity reverses and the belt shakes and spins, making Daryl feel a little sick with how much his stomach is flopping around. He’s always hated rollercoasters. Then there’s a click of the belt buckle, and everything settles down again. A cell phone slides in next to him, there’s a zip of a coat, and a jingle of keys.

The front door swings open, and Rick strides down the porch, across the yard, and into to the car. The engine starts up with a sputter, and Rick coasts down the drive.

The radio turns on with a buzz of static. Rick flips through a few stations before he settles on one playing soft rock.

Sitting here in a rumbling car with the radio up, even though he’s stuffed in a small little pouch, is kind of like being rocked to sleep by a childhood lullaby. He thinks back on the old motorcycle Merle let him ride sometimes, the way it purred like a cat, and wonders where it’s ended up.

It takes an awful long time to get to town, but Daryl doesn’t really mind. Rick’s a smooth driver, the music is pretty good, and the pouch he’s in is nice and warm.

-

Daryl starts awake when Rick gets out of the car and slams the door shut. He didn’t even realize he’d fallen asleep again.

He peers out the tiny slit on the side of his pouch. Looks like they’re at the town police station, going from all the marked Dodge Chargers sitting in the parking lot outside.

“Morning, Grimes,” says the guy at the front desk.

“Morning, Martinez,” Rick says. “Morgan in?”

“Yeah,” Martinez sighs. “Pissed as hell, though. Wouldn’t go in for another half hour if I were you.”

“Hmm,” Rick replies noncommittally.

He walks over to his desk, tosses his jacket on the back of the chair, and sorts through a short stack of papers that have been left there. Another cop comes in the door, holding a steaming cup of coffee and a look so venomous Daryl can only assume she’s got the worst hangover in human history.

“Don’t say a damn thing, Martinez,” she snaps as he opens his mouth with half a smirk forming at the edges. She gives him an especially pointed look, and he slowly shuts his mouth with a click. Wise choice, in Daryl’s opinion. A look like that could take a man’s head off. “Hey, Grimes, you got a second?”

“Sure,” Rick says easily, spinning in his chair. “Whatcha need, Harrison?”

She comes up to him, and from this close, Daryl can see the dark circles under her eyes. They’re almost bigger than he is. “Wondered if you could take a look at a profile I’m working on.”

“Which case?”

She sighs. “That damn basement case.”

Rick is silent for a moment. “Andrea – ”

“I know, Rick,” Harrison interrupts tiredly. “I’m supposed to build this one on my own, blah blah blah. Just – could you take a look at it? I’ve been staring at it for so long I’ll be permanently cross-eyed by the time it’s closed.”

Rick breathes a long sigh out his nose, and in that moment Daryl knows he’s gonna fold. “Okay,” he agrees. “Just one look. Leave it on my desk and I’ll get to it after my patrol.”

“Thank you,” she says fervently. “I owe you one, Grimes.”

She heads over to her own desk, nursing her coffee, and Rick chuckles a little as she goes. “I’m gonna cash in on that one someday, Harrison.”

“I know, I know.” She waves her free hand over her shoulder without looking back.

Rick goes back to his papers. Every once in awhile he scribbles something down, fills out another line, whatever. Daryl can’t see shit, but he doesn’t give a damn about paperwork, anyway. Won’t have nothing to do with the smiling man, as far as he can figure, so he doesn’t stress out about it.

When Rick finishes looking through everything, he neatly organizes all his loose desk papers into a tidy stack. Then he rolls onto his feet, jostling Daryl around, and tosses them all into a folder.

“Whoa, Grimes! It’s only been ten minutes,” Martinez says, and there’s an undercurrent of fear in his voice. “You’ll want to wait another twenty at least, he’ll rip your head off.”

“No, he won’t,” Rick says.

No, he won’t, Daryl silently agrees.

Rick heads over to a non-descript office door and knocks twice, his knuckles rapping sharp and loud on the wood.

There’s an annoyed grunt from inside, followed by a venomous, “Martinez, I swear to _god_ I’ll throw you in a holding cell and throw away the key if you knock on my door _one more fucking time_ – ”

“Morgan,” Rick says patiently. “I got your file on last week’s carjacking.”

There’s a pause.

“Rick,” Morgan says in a completely different tone of voice. “What are you waiting for, get the fuck in my office.”

Daryl can tell Rick is smiling when he says, “Yessir.” He pushes the door open, lobs the folder into the inbox sitting on the desk, and sits at one of the chairs in front of Morgan.

“Got another call last night,” Morgan says without any lead-in. “Third one this week from that god-awful bastard up on 5th.”

“The guy who runs the liquor store?” Rick asks. “Jenner?”

“That’s him,” Morgan confirms. “Kept me and the rest of the station up damn near all night, talking about some goddamn Frankenstein’s monster. Had to talk him down from doing something, not quite sure what, though. Think he might’ve had an idea in his head to go after whatever he thought he was seeing, try to take it down.”

Rick hums. “Sounds like an assault waiting to happen.”

Morgan nods. “Knew you’d see it my way. Get over there and check things out after your patrol. Make sure he’s doing alright.”

“Sir.” Rick stands and turns to leave.

“One more thing,” Morgan says. Rick stops, looks back. “Official police business. Get some doughnuts and a couple coffees on your way back, would ya.”

Rick snorts. “I’ll see what I can do.”

-

The sky’s a little overcast, but the sun is out whenever there’s a gap in the clouds. Daryl hopes it doesn’t rain, or he’ll be stuck in a soggy polyester pouch for the rest of the day.

Rick is strolling down the sidewalk at a lazy pace, probably the same way he does every day, but it’s not like he’s indifferent or apathetic. It feels more like he’s walking slow, but his mind’s moving fast. Like everything around him is unfolding in his mind like a map, and that he’s taking the time to process it all.

Daryl keeps his eyes peeled on Rick’s six o’clock. Never know when the smiling man’ll appear, and Daryl’d rather not be surprised when he does.

Daryl mostly sees grass growing out of the cracks in the sidewalk, rather than any signs of a floating serial killer with a knife and a weird invisible bloody aura, but he keeps at it.

-

After a couple blocks, a small voice pipes up, “Officer?”

Rick stops walking, turns to the side, and crouches down. It makes Daryl’s stomach swoop, like he’s fallen off a four-story building or something. “What can I do for you, little lady?”

“I...” She pauses, and recites carefully, “Please, could you fix my shoes?”

“You mean,” Rick corrects kindly, “can I tie your shoelaces?”

“’Zactly,” she says. “Can you tie my shoelaces.”

“Well, ma’am, I’d be happy to,” Rick leans down and takes her shoelaces in hand. “Could be dangerous, walking around without your laces tied. It was good of you to ask.”

He finishes up with a perfect double bunny knot. “There you are, all finished.”

“Thank you, Mister!” she says before she darts off.

“Welcome,” Rick calls after her.

He huffs a little laugh as he watches her scuttle down the sidewalk. Then he turns and gets back to walking the beat.

Daryl suddenly notices that the click of his boots sounds different here on the concrete, far different from how it sounds on the wooden floor in the kitchen back home. Like it’s muted, lighter, than that. Like he’s shut a part of himself off. The part that’s heavy, loud, angry, and sharp.

Daryl shakes his head. Whatever, Daryl is probably just filling in things to make the time pass a little quicker.

-

They stop at an intersection. Traffic is starting to grow as the day goes on, and more and more people are popping out of the woodwork. There’s the low buzz of distant talking, and the growl of a herd of car engines.

Standing here on this street corner is kind of... nice.

Daryl usually hates cities and larger towns, always feels like he’s being watched and can’t get a moment’s peace, but this is different. Reminds him of when he goes on a hunting trip, and just listens to the birds chirp and the wind shudder through the tree leaves.

When the light finally switches, Rick strolls over the crosswalk along with a few other pedestrians.

Some of the shops start to bustle with business. Whenever one of the doors open, there’s a tiny ding of a bell. It’s starting to sound like a goddamn handbell choir from where Daryl’s sitting.

The store windows they pass on the next block are full of bright, fresh produce. Daryl can see watermelons and pears and blueberries, and his mouth starts to water. The automatic doors swish open when Rick walks by, and Daryl looks back at them forlornly as they pass them.

A lady comes out of the grocery store with paper bags in her arms and a little girl at her side. She walks up to her car on the street and does a double take when she sees him.

“Hi there, Rick!”

“Morning, Carol.” Rick slows down and helps her pack her groceries into the trunk. “Sophia doing all right?”

“Sure is,” Carol says cheerfully, nodding towards where Sophia’s now sitting in the backseat of the minivan. “Hell of a lot better now that Ed’s out of the picture.”

Rick snorts as he lowers a gallon of milk carefully into the back. “I bet. How’d the hearing go?”

“Indicted,” Carol says smugly. “Trial’s going to start up soon, once they get a jury together.”

“Good to hear!” Rick sounds surprised. “And the restraining order?”

“Signed, sealed, delivered,” Carol quips. “Judge signed it a couple days ago.”

“Sounds like it’s turning out just about perfect.”

“Only because you helped,” Carol points out. “I wouldn’t have even reported anything to the police that night, if you hadn’t heard something and knocked on our door.”

Rick shifts his weight, unknowingly rocking Daryl from side to side like a tugboat. “You did all the hard parts. I just did my job, got you started.”

“Well, then, you do your job pretty damn well,” Carol teases. She shuts the trunk and moves around to the driver-side door. “Thank you, officer.”

“No problem, ma’am,” Rick says. “Have a good day, now.”

“You too!” Carol waves as Rick moves past her car. He waves back.

Before they’re out of range, Daryl looks back to get a glimpse of her face. There’s a suspicion in the back of his mind gnawing him about her.

Yeah.

There’s black and blue stripes on Carol’s neck, big fat ones. From fingers, or Daryl’s a monkey’s uncle. He’s sure seen enough cuts and bruises to know which ones are which.

Got enough of his own, too. Daryl brushes a hand on his shoulder, right over a deep, jagged scar he knows curls up over his back and over his collarbone. For a moment, he thinks of how things might’ve been different if there’d been another Rick Grimes to knock on the Dixon door twenty years ago.

Then he stuffs that thought in the very back of his mind and locks it away. No use thinking like that.

Daryl looks back at the empty sky, eyes searching vainly for any sign of the smiling man.

There aren’t any. Just clouds.

-

There’s a few stores that Rick doesn’t just pass by. He stops and pauses in front of their shop windows, lingering on seemingly disconnected things.

He seems to like some of the music album cover designs, and the fresh bread in the bakery. He stares at a white wedding dress on a mannequin for a good minute before he moves on.

Rick says hi now and again to the people on the street. There’s two sisters, a gruff tall guy with a pretty weird mustache, and a squad of little old Hispanic ladies that want to stop and talk to him. They all seem pretty familiar with him, just like Carol was. They don’t use the standard dry, polite tone people usually take towards beat cops, either. They genuinely like him.

Daryl probably would’ve, too, if Rick’d been the one doing rounds in the trailer park, way back when.

-

Rick takes a turn around a corner, and stops in his tracks, rigid. Daryl glances over.

It’s just some guy in the alleyway, sleeping next to a dumpster. He’s wearing a whole bunch of ratty layers, even though it’s high summer in Georgia and hot as hell.

“Sir?”

No response. Rick tries again.

“Sir,” he says firmly. He takes a step into the alley. “I’m a police officer.”

“M’not doin’ nothin’ wrong,” the man mumbles. “Not doin’ nothing to nobody, can’t force me to – ”

“Not forcing you to do anything,” Rick says with a carefully even tone. “You all right?”

The man peers up at him suspiciously. He’s got intelligent eyes and dark skin.

“...Why you wanna know?”

“Because,” Rick says. “I haven’t seen you ‘round here before. I got a good place for you to go, if you want. Free showers, beds. You interested?”

He’s silent. Daryl peeks out at him, and he’s forcing a blank look over his face.

Rick sighs. “It’s the town’s homeless shelter. Lemme give you directions.” He pulls out a notebook and a pen out of his front shirt pocket, and scribbles down a couple lines. “I also got a doctor around here that’d treat you for free, if you got anything needs treating. I put his phone number at the bottom, you can call from the shelter or from the library down the street.”

Rick rips the paper out of his notebook, folds it in half, and holds it out.

The man looks at him for a long moment. “What’s your name?”

“Rick. Rick Grimes.”

His eyes flick down to Rick’s hand. Daryl knows what he’s feeling so well it hurts.

“Bob Stookey,” he says eventually, like he’s imparting a classified state secret, and takes the note with a flick of his wrist. His fingernails, Daryl notices, are filed and smooth, in sharp contrast to his raggedy clothes, and there’s a thin hemp bracelet on his arm with two silver dimes strung through it.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Stookey,” Rick says. “See you ‘round town.”

Rick doesn’t linger. Daryl has a feeling that it’s because Stookey’s started to cry silent tears despite himself, and Rick wants to give him a little privacy. Rick exits the alley and breaks into the main sidewalk, gives the street another long look, and starts walking back the way he came.

Beat’s over, looks like. And so far, no sign of the smiling man.

-

The restaurant Rick stops at is a nice little dive. Got clean tables, chatty regular customers, and the enticing smell of breakfast food coming from the kitchen.

“Officer Grimes!” a smiling waitress says. “You’re early today. What can I do ya for?”

“Ms. Greene,” Rick says politely, like he’s some kind of Southern gentleman. Daryl wouldn’t be surprised if he’d tipped his damn cowboy hat at her.

“I told you, call me Maggie,” she chuckles. “Now, you want yer usual?”

“No ma’am, just here on account of the station,” Rick says. “Four coffees, black, and some doughnuts if you’ve got ‘em.”

“For you, I got twelve.” Maggie winks. “Have a seat, it’ll only be a minute.”

She walks off and Rick takes a booth by the door. Daryl can’t see anything from down here, just the underside of the table stuck with a few pieces of chewing gum.

It’s not too terrible, though. Daryl burrows into the warmth seeping into the pouch from Rick’s body heat and closes his eyes. He could easily fall asleep like this, but Rick’s thigh starts jiggling restlessly.

No, wait, it’s not restlessness, it’s a rhythm. A beat. There’s music being piped in from somewhere, Daryl realizes. It’s a quiet undercurrent to all the chatter going on in the restaurant, but now that he’s listening, it’s there. Something country, slow-paced, and a little sad. But beautiful.

Kind of like Rick, Daryl thinks traitorously to himself.

He bonks his head on the polyester pouch wall. Stop. There is no way he’s gonna go and fall for a married man that’s fifty times taller than he currently is. None of that, Dixon.

He lets a long breath out his nose.

Might be too late, if he’s being honest with himself.

Daryl leaves his forehead pressing into the wall, lets out the fight from his shoulders until they sink down. It’s not like Rick’s ever gonna even know he exists. Daryl’s gonna keep hiding away, Rick’s gonna keep not-believing in any kind of magic, and they’ll never actually meet each other. Not for real.

Daryl shakes his head. How would that even go? Hi, name’s Daryl Dixon, only four inches tall because of a goddamn curse from a homicidal witch asshole that’s also apparently stalking you, been living in your kitchen the past couple months, been tryna save your life without you noticing a damn thing, completely fucking head over heels for your sorry ass, nice to meet ya.

“’Lo there,” Rick says conversationally.

Daryl’s head whips up, startled.

Did he just –

“Howdy, there, Clint Eastwood,” a voice says in a terrible impression of a Spaghetti Western cowboy accent.

Okay. Turns out he’s talking to some other guy, not Daryl’s inner thoughts. Makes sense. Doesn’t do much to slow down Daryl’s sudden racing heartbeat, though.

“Got your doughnuts here,” the voice continues. “Baker’s dozen. With a few extra thrown in, just because.”

“Thank you, Glenn,” Rick says. “Morgan’ll sure appreciate it.”

Glenn snorts. “He appreciates them so much, he’s almost single-handedly funding the bakery. Tell him to lay off the clichés, he might lose some weight.”

Rick laughs out loud.

Daryl blinks. That’s the first time he’s heard Rick laugh like that. Deep and real and unexpected. It reverberates through his whole body; Daryl can feel it rumbling in his bones.

“I would, but I’d kind of like to keep my job,” Rick says.

“Fair enough. At least you get dental, I guess. You’ll need it, with all that sugar.”

“Says the baker.” Rick chuckles.

“Damn right,” Glenn says smugly. “We bakers, we – ”

There’s a wet smack of cloth, which Daryl can’t wrap his head around until Glenn splutters, “Maggie!”

High heels click around, and there’s a thump on Rick’s table.

“Your coffees.” Then Maggie turns with a scrape of her heel and says saccharinely, “And what are you still doing out here, hm? I thought there was something ‘delicate’ in the oven?”

“Shit,” Glenn swears before he runs back to the kitchen.

There’s a faraway clang of kitchenware, like a wall of pots and pans just took a dive for the floor.

Rick is chuckling again as he slides out of the booth seat and juggles the doughnuts and coffee tray into the curve of his arm. The world opens up to Daryl again – he can see Maggie’s smirk and her hands on her hips, instead of four-week-old bubblegum with a hair stuck in it. He wonders what Glenn looks like.

“When are you gonna give that boy a break?” Rick asks.

“Maybe when he finally asks me out on a date.” Maggie sniffs. “Been waitin’ long enough. Now, you just gonna stand around, or are you gonna take those back to the station?”

“Right after I stop by the Tower on 5th,” Rick says as he steps out the door. “Thank you kindly, Ms. Greene!”

“I told you, call me Maggie!” she calls. “Now get goin’! Don’t let them coffees go cold!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

-

Daryl’s been on the other side of cop check-ups before. Merle’s done a lot of stupid shit that had the neighbors calling in, especially when he was using. Daryl’s talked to cops exhausted and hungover more times than he can count. He can tell Rick’s done this kind of thing a lot before, too, just from the way his voice goes flat and bored and professional once he steps into the liquor store.

“Sir,” Rick says firmly. There’s no response. Daryl can’t see anyone in here, not even behind the register, even though the front door said ‘Open’ and the door wasn’t locked. “Mr. Jenner?”

Rick stalks on over to the counter, sets down the doughnuts and coffees, and glances over it. Nobody is hunkered down under there, but there are an awful of lot of empty bottles strewn over the floor. One’s been tipped over and spilled on the floor.

“Mr. Jenner,” Rick calls. Silence.

“This is the police, here to talk to you about your call last night and to address any concerns you may have.”

Again, nothing.

Rick’s fingers drum on the counter. “Mr. Jenner, I know you’re here. Your car is still outside on the street.”

Daryl frowns. Unless he’s passed out in his own vomit or something, any drunk dumbass who’d called 911 to rant about random shit would be up and smiling apologetically when an officer showed up to check in with him. ‘S only common sense.

Rick steps behind the counter, where there’s a door to an employee’s only room cracked open by an inch or two. Only other place Jenner could be in the store, and the lock is broken. Like it got smashed by someone from the outside.

Rick takes out his Colt with a flash of silver, holds it steady in both hands, and carefully pushes the door open with the muzzle.

Daryl sees it first.

He can pinpoint the moment Rick does, too – Rick’s arms lower in shock, dipping the Colt to point at the ground, and he takes a half-step backwards.

There’s a moment frozen in time, where Rick and Daryl just stare into the storeroom. Even for people who’ve seen a lot, what’s in front of them right now – well, it’s pretty damn disturbing.

“Oh my god,” Rick breathes.

He radios it in. “Dispatch, this is Grimes. We’ve got a 10-44 here at the Tower Beer on 5th, do you copy?”

“ _Shit_ ,” Martinez exclaims. “Uh. Grimes, this is Dispatch, and yeah, 10-4, we copy. You want a 10-102? There’s one downtown right now, EMTs are just finishing up – ”

“No,” Rick cuts him off, voice a little grittier than normal. “No, no 10-102 necessary. A 10-79 should do it, over.”

“...10-4.”

Now, Daryl’s not all that familiar with all those police codes they use on the radio. That was more Merle’s specialty. But he can make a good guess that a 10-79 is a goddamn coroner, because Jenner’s spread-eagled on the ground with a sawed-off shotgun stuck in his neck and a gaping, bloody hole where his face used to be.

-

Turns out, Daryl is right. It _is_ the goddamn coroner.

-

Later, the entire precinct is huddled around a table in the station break room, gripping their cold coffees with clammy hands and staring off into the walls like they’re trying to will this whole thing to just disappear.

If this were in one of them cop shows, it would probably be raining right now. Dark ominous sky, torrential downpour, the works. Instead, the sky’s cleared up and the sun’s come out. It’s jarring, hearing birds chirp and seeing flowers and bushes through bright windows. Makes everything seem kind of surreal. Dreamlike.

Rick still hasn’t eaten his doughnut.

It’s sitting there on its napkin, untouched. The glaze is starting to melt and sink through the napkin into the table, sticking like glue.

The heavy silence is weighing on everyone in the room, but nobody makes a move to break it. They sip at their Styrofoam cups mechanically every couple of minutes, but Daryl bets that not one of them can taste anything but ash in their mouths.

After all, it’s all _he_ can taste, munching on the half-cashew he packed from home.

-

It’s awhile until anyone says anything, long after they’ve all gone back to their desks and started up their regular jobs. Just short little words, borne out of routine. A ‘thank you’ there, a ‘scuse me’ there.

When they do start to talk, it’s in a hush. Like they’re at a wake or something.

Daryl gets lost in the murmurs, full of police codes and policies and paperwork talk. He guesses that it’s easier to handle shit like this when you hold it at arm’s length. Keeps it contained, with all them definitions and procedures cops got to eke out.

A few hours go by like that, rustling and murmuring and the scratching of pen on paper.

The file Harrison wanted Rick to look at is lying on his desk, untouched. Harrison hasn’t asked about it, and Daryl’s pretty sure Rick hasn’t even looked at it. There’s a general understanding filling the office that it can wait.

-

The atmosphere in the station takes on a charge when Rick heaves himself up onto his feet and makes a beeline for Morgan’s office.

Before he can knock, Morgan says gruffly through the closed door, “Grimes.”

“Jones.”

There’s a pause, after that. Neither one of them knows what the hell they’re supposed to say next, and they’re floundering. Daryl knows the feeling.

“Can I talk to you,” Rick finally asks, muted and reluctant. It sounds less like a question and more like a foregone conclusion, one that he’s been purposefully putting off as long as possible. “Both of you.”

Morgan blows out a breath, and his voice is hoarse and dispirited. “Fuck, Rick.” But not a second later, he orders, “You and Martinez, in here in five.”

“Sir,” Rick says gently, and backs off.

-

Morgan is sitting on his desk and looking out his window when Rick opens the door a few minutes later. He’s frowning and his arms are crossed. Daryl knows that whatever’s about to happen, it’s not going to be enjoyable for anyone.

“Sit,” Morgan orders, without looking away from the swaying tree branches outside.

Rick and Martinez sit.

“Martinez, due to the recent – ” Morgan pauses. “ – _events_ , in town, recordings from Dispatch need to be collected and presented to Grimes for evidentiary consideration. Have those in to him as soon as you can.”

Martinez probably nods or something. Daryl can’t really see him from this angle, but Morgan seems to nod back at him, so.

“Before you go over those tapes,” Morgan directs to Rick, “You want a statement from both of us.”

“Yeah,” Rick mutters, shuffling a legal pad into his lap and uncapping a pen. “Just, you know. Routine stuff.”

“Go,” Morgan commands off to the side.

“Right,” Martinez says a little nervously. “So, where you want me to start?”

“Just – ” Rick makes a vague gesture with his free hand. “Tell me about the call last night.”

“Okay, uh.” Martinez collects his thoughts for a second. “Second call this week, from this lunáticoJenner, so. Knew it was him second he started babbling all his whacko bullshit.”

“What kind of bullshit?”

“Conspiracy theories, man. He’s got ‘em all, cuz of what happened to his wife.”

Rick stops writing on the legal pad for a second, and there’s a frown in his voice. “What happened to her?”

“Got killed, man, like, a thousand years ago. Got hit by a semi when she was running down the highway at ass o’clock at night. Jenner never got over it. Every month, he got a new theory on what ‘really happened.’ One month it’s aliens, another month it’s fuckin’ fairies.”

“Fairies?” Rick asks.

Martinez snorts. “Yeah, I know, man, lunático. Fairies. With wings and shit. But yeah, this time, I answered the phone and he’s all whisperin’ in his creepy voice, just – ” His voice goes into a stage whisper. “ – ‘He’s coming, he’s coming, you gotta get over here, my brain, he’s gonna take my brain’ – ” Then Martinez’ voice goes back to normal. “...And I, uh, just knew it was him, you know?”

“Okay,” Rick agrees. “Was there anything different about this call, though? Anything stick out to you?”

Martinez hums. “I guess, mmm, the whispering. He usually don’t care, talks real fuckin’ loud, it drives me up the fuckin’ wall cuz I got his loud-ass voice stuck in my fuckin’ ear and I hafta suffer through it without cutting that nutjob the _fuck off_ no matter how fucking rude he is, just cuz it’s my _job_ –”

Morgan clears his throat. Loudly. Martinez changes track.

“ – which, uh, is great and fine and fucking wonderful because I’m bettering the community and shit like that. Anyway. Yeah, he was real quiet, convinced something was chasing after him. Or listening to him, not sure which.”

“He give a description?”

Martinez shifts in his seat uncomfortably. Daryl can hear the leather squeak.

“Uh, yeah, I guess, but. You know he’s crazy, right? Fucking loco?”

Rick doesn’t answer that. Just waits.

Martinez sighs. “Right, okay, yeah. He said it was Frankenstein after him, actually fucking called him that, Frankenstein.”

“Frankenstein or Frankenstein’s monster?” Rick asks cautiously, like he’s not sure if Martinez is fucking with him or not.

“The doctor, not the monster,” Martinez says. “The one who made it, right, brought the thing back to life. Said it was, uh, holding a knife, gonna cut him up and use his brain for spare parts or something.”

Daryl’s ears prick up. A man with a knife, huh.

“Anything else? He say what the guy looked like?”

“Hmm, I don’t know, I think he said, uh,” Martinez stops to think. “I don’t remember, you’re gonna have to listen to the tapes. I don’t think he said anything about what it looked like. Think he might’ve just been seein’ things, man.”

Rick is scribbling furiously now.

“Okay, I will,” he says. “Morgan?”

Morgan tosses his head at Martinez, who stands and leaves the office. Probably to get those tapes for Rick, if Daryl has to guess.

“Rick,” Morgan finally says back, when the door finally clicks shut.

“You talked to him too, right? Kept you and Martinez up most of last night?”

Morgan scrubs his face with a hand. “Yeah, that’s right. Martinez couldn’t handle it all by himself, called me in to help talk Jenner down. Mostly he was, uh, trying to explain his Frankenstein theory to us. Lots of talk about a crazy doctor, a patched-up corpse, and something about ‘playing god,’ don’t remember exactly what he said, but it was something like that. Like he was some kinda hotshot physicist givin’ us the secret keys to the universe or some other pretentious bullshit. Otherwise, he was flipping the fuck out because he swore he was bein’ hunted down by the thing, said he was gonna fight for his life.”

Rick taps his pen on his pad in a faint staccato rhythm. “How did the call end?”

“Well, after an hour or two of talking him down from some crazy violent shit, he started repeating ‘my brain, my brain’ or whatever. So I told him, sir, Jenner, it’s all gonna be fine, nobody gonna get your brain. And – ” Morgan pauses. “And he seemed to take that in all right, repeated what I said, and… ended the call.”

Ended his life, too, Morgan doesn’t need to say.

They’re all thinking it.

“Well. That’s enough for a statement,” Rick says, rising up to his feet. “I’ll grab the tapes from Martinez and give them a go. Let me know when the post-mortem and forensics are in.”

“Will do,” Morgan says. And that’s that.

-

Later, at Rick’s desk, there’s the whirring sound of a tape fast-forwarding. A heavy click of a button. Then –

“ – _Sir. Mr. Jenner. Please calm down_.”

Morgan.

“ _You don’t understand_ ,” a haggard, desperate voice snarls back. That’s gotta be Jenner. “ _None of you do, you’re all blind, you don’t see what I see, you don’t think there’s anything out there, oh, all sorts of things are, one of them was after her, too, and one of them’s after me now –_ ”

“ _There’s nobody after you that wants your brain, sir, nobody’s after you_ – ”

Jenner laughs, and it’s high-pitched and reedy. “ _Tell that to_ him.” There’s a heavy thunk. “ _That’s him, that’s him, he won’t stop until he has my brain_.”

“ _Sir_ – ”

“ _My brain, my brain, he’s, my brain, he wants it, my brain, he’s gonna get my brain, no, no, my brain, my brain, it’s my_ brain – ”

“ _Jenner, nobody is gonna get your brain. You hear me? Nobody_.”

There’s a small silence. A crackle. Another thump. Maybe two.

“ _Sir? You there_?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Jenner replies, but – something is different in his voice, now. It’s – calmer. It’s... off-putting. Almost too calm, Daryl thinks. Like the calm his dad would get, sometimes. Ready. Focused. Dangerous. “ _Yeah. I hear you_.”

“ _You understand now? You know nobody’s gonna get your brain? We on the same page_?”

“ _Nobody’s gonna get my brain_ ,” Jenner repeats serenely. “ _Nobody. It’s gonna be all right_. _It’s all gonna be all right_.”

“ _Good, this is good. Okay, sir, if you can, I want you to_ – ”

The line cuts off, and there’s static.

Rick stops the tape. Takes a second.

Then he presses rewind.

-

Morgan hands Rick a whole stack of reports and files from forensics, and watches every move Rick makes with careful, caring eyes from behind his desk. Daryl wonders what Rick’s expression looks like right now, and why it’s making Morgan look so concerned.

“Done with the tapes already?” Morgan asks.

“Yeah,” Rick admits. “Got myself a transcript cheat sheet for later, if I need one, but.”

Morgan nods. “Good work, Grimes. Go get some lunch, if you can stomach it.”

“Sir.”

Rick strides across the office, gets one hand on the doorknob.

Then Rick stops, hesitates, like there’s something still on his mind. Weighing on him. All of a sudden, Rick turns around, fast enough that Daryl’s nose smacks into the polyester pouch wall next to him. He grips onto the lining to steady himself and get rid of the dizziness.

“Something isn’t...” Rick shifts a little, from side to side. “I just... Something isn’t right, here. This case...”

“Rick, a man is dead. When does a case like this ever feel right?” Morgan snorts humorlessly, spinning a little to the side in his office chair and folding his fingers together.

“Morgan,” Rick says in an undertone. “The steel lock on the storage room door was busted open from the outside.”

Morgan blinks, and something shifts. Suddenly he looks like he’s carved out of stone, and impossibly, impossibly old. Weathered. Daryl can see the glimmer of his badge, just barely edged in sunlight from the window behind him. From here, it looks like it’s collapsing his ribcage in with its weight. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah.”

Rick shuts the door behind him with a click when he leaves.

-

The muted clinking of silverware, cups, and plates fills the restaurant. The song over the speakers isn’t playing anymore, and there’s not nearly as much talk as before going around between the customers. Daryl wonders why. Maybe it’s because of Jenner; maybe the whole town is flying at half-mast.

Maggie’s just as energetic as before when she shows up, though.

“It gonna be the usual today?” she asks. “Or are we gonna try to spice it up with some tasteless vegetarian burgers? We have those, you know, or at least I think we do. Ain’t had a single customer order one in the two months they been on the menu, so I can’t really be all that sure.”

“No, no, ” Rick chuckles. Daryl can feel the chuckle reverberate through him, and it makes his skin prickle with warmth. “Just the usual.”

Turns out, Rick’s usual at the diner is a steak and potato kind of deal with some soup du jour on the side. Maggie gives him some hell for it, saying he won’t stay that in shape forever eating this kind of heavy meal every day, but her tone’s good-natured.

She sets down a glass bottle of steak sauce on the table with a chink and flounces off, leaving Rick to it.

-

Daryl tries not to listen to Rick eating his lunch – the scrape of his fork and knife on the plate, the whisper of his clothes brushing together as he moves, the soft, pleased purr rumbling from deep in his throat when he tastes the sauce –

God fucking dammit, Daryl thinks as he grits his teeth. Those noises should be illegal. He’s pretty sure his face is burning bright red, too. God.

He stares back up at what he’s begun to think of as his very own piece of chewed gum. Hair stuck in it and all. It makes the sounds Daryl can’t help but hear a lot easier to handle. Helps him throw off the shiver running up his spine, too.

Rick shuffles out the booth to pay his bill up at the register. All the erratic movement gives Daryl little jolts in the stomach, but he’s getting more and more used to this as the day goes on. Doesn’t bother him much now.

“That’ll be $6.75,” Maggie says a little distractedly, typing up a storm on the register to print out the bill.

Rick pulls out his wallet from his back pocket and slides his credit card onto the counter. She swipes it in one smooth movement, and Rick signs on the dotted line.

Daryl has always wondered what it’d be like to own a credit card. Seems pretty convenient. Fast. And you wouldn’t even have to worry about change or anything. Daryl’d never had much money, or really much of anything. He scrounged handfuls of cash here and there, worked a lot of odd jobs just to get by. But Daryl, he’d mostly hunted for his food, lived out in the woods when he had no place else to go, and left the finagling to Merle when it came to wheels, booze, and paperwork. Never really got that deep into the whole economy thing, certainly never got a credit score.

Seems like, sometimes, Daryl’s living in a completely different world far away from everyone else. They got credit cards, mortgages, steady jobs, familiar faces around town, taxes, the works. Might not know how to shoot a crossbow or skin a deer, but then again, they don’t need to.

They’ve already got everything they need.

His mood goes a little sour. If _Daryl’d_ had a stable childhood, enough money to get by, enough schooling to graduate high school and then maybe even college – well, Daryl doesn’t even know what kind of man he’d have been.

One thing’s for sure, though. Daryl crosses his arms and sulks. That perfect, happy, stable, outgoing Daryl? He’d have a much better shot with Rick than the real Daryl ever will.

Totally unaware of any torturous identity crises going on in the pouches of his holster belt, Rick falls into step with the same slow but steady rhythm he had going when he was walking the beat. The door jingles, and they’re outside again. Walking back to the station, if Daryl’s got his directions right. The wind’s up, and the sun’s come out a little bit despite all the clouds up there.

They pass the grocery store again. Daryl practically salivates as he stares hungrily through the window at all the fresh fruit there. God, what he wouldn’t do for one of those plastic boxes of blueberries, who cares if they’re covered in –

Wait.

Daryl frowns.

That’s not right, the blueberries aren’t covered in anything, they sure weren’t the last time they passed this place, why do they look all, all bloodstained –

Daryl’s whole body tenses up.

The reflection in the window – It’s –

Daryl looks, and yeah.

The smiling man is there across the street. Knife and weirdly invisible blood aura and all.

“ _Shit_ ,” Daryl swears under his breath, clenching his fists on the edge of the pouch until his knuckles go white.

-

Nothing happens.

Rick walks all the way back to the station, and the smiling man follows him, but that’s it. It doesn’t make a move. Hell, it stays a pretty constant fifty feet away from Rick the whole time. Daryl would know, because he hasn’t looked away from the thing for a second since he caught it in his sights.

Rick either hasn’t seen it, or he flatly refuses to believe it could possibly real because of his whole therapy thing, because his behavior hasn’t changed at bit.

Daryl honestly can’t tell.

-

Whatever the smiling man is, it doesn’t follow Rick inside the station.

No, it stays out on the street, right up against the window. Daryl tries to keep his eyes on it, but he loses sight of it in a flurry of movement and can’t find it again.

Rick passes Martinez’ desk with a preoccupied “Afternoon,” and gets back a similarly preoccupied grunt. Looks like Martinez is concentrating on something in the newspaper – Daryl bets it’s the crossword.

There’s a fierce clopping coming down the hall, like an oncoming army. The comparison’s not too far off – it’s Harrison, and she’s on the warpath.

She cuts Rick off before he can sit at his desk, stepping right in his way. Her hands are on her hips and her lips are drawn tight.

“Andrea,” Rick says politely.

“Rick,” she says just as politely.

There’s a tense standstill that doesn’t break until Andrea crumples a bit and says, “Okay, look, I just wanted to talk to you for a second about the basement case, but I’d understand if you didn’t want to because of... today.”

Rick doesn’t say anything.

Her eyes track over his face. “Look, I just... Don’t you think it’s weird? Another fatality, two days later?”

Rick sighs and steps around her to his desk chair. He plops down into it heavily. “It is,” he admits. “And the more evidence I get, the weirder _it_ gets.”

Andrea pauses, and sits on the corner edge of his desk, right next to his inbox and outbox that are stuffed with police paperwork. “I’m not saying these cases have the same... cause,” she says carefully. “But...”

“But there’s a high chance they’re connected,” Rick finishes. “Fits of paranoia, locked rooms, gory deaths, suspiciously close timeframe...”

Andrea nods, glancing at the ground.

Rick spins in his chair and picks up the file on the basement case she’d given him earlier. He hesitates for a moment before he opens it up and cards through the crime scene photos.

Then he snaps it shut and puts it in his bag.

“I can’t promise you anything,” Rick warns. “All I’m gonna do is take it home tonight and take a look at it, that’s all. See how this basement thing stacks up against the storeroom thing.”

“Understood,” Andrea says, sliding off the desk and back onto her feet with a shrug. “Connecting cases is always a long shot.”

“Yeah,” Rick murmurs as she walks back to her desk.

His voice is heavy. Daryl wonders what exactly’s weighing it down.

-

After hours of relative silence and paper shuffling, Rick’s pen stops scratching. He twists to the side in his chair.

“Morgan.”

Morgan is standing there, clearly wanting to say something, but he stays as silent as the grave. He’s holding a mug of steaming coffee, and it’s so strong that Daryl can smell it from here. He’s pretty sure Morgan takes his coffee black.

“Rick.”

They stare at each other.

Then:

“I’m,” Morgan stops and starts. “No easy way to say this, I guess, so.”

“What?” Rick asks sharply. “What happened?”

Morgan waves a hand. “No, it’s not anything you’re thinking. Your family’s fine, no major disasters or emergencies.”

“Then... what is it?” he asks.

Morgan hesitates.

“Morgan,” Rick says firmly. “Whatever you came here to say, say it now.”

Morgan shakes his head with a frustrated little sigh. “Fine, you stubborn asshole. I... I just talked to Hershel.”

Daryl doesn’t know who the fuck that is, but Morgan... He says it like it’s a goddamn confession.

And then Rick goes still, like the calm before a storm.

“Why,” Rick finally says, and his voice is cold. “You think I’m not up for the job? Think I’m cracking up?”

The temperature in the room feels like it’s dropped a couple degrees.

“Look, Rick, you know what happens up there when you see bad shit on the job,” Morgan says defensively, gesturing to his head. “Everyone’s got it a little bit, you just have it a little worse, okay? Yesterday was bad, and... And then, after what you stumbled onto today, with Jenner, I...”

“You didn’t want me to go batshit,” Rick says dully. “I get it. I’d lock me up, too. Can’t have a crazy trigger-happy cop on the payroll.”

Morgan makes a particularly disgusted, frustrated sound. “No, you dumbass, I want you to be _okay_! Happy and well-adjusted and healing and _all that shit_!” Morgan growls.

He leans in and stabs at Rick’s chest with a finger. “I know you’re fucked in the head, and lemme be clear, here, I’m not talking about the made-up shit you see, I’m talking ‘bout _you_ , fuckin’ _Rick Grimes_. _You_ are fucked in the head. After what you saw today, fuck, if _anyone_ saw it, and I don’t care how sparkly clean the fuck’s brain was beforehand, I’d send _any_ cocky goddamn cop I knew _straight_ to the goddamn couch. So get over yourself and your fucking complex, whatever the hell it is, and get over to Hershel’s and talk to him before I beat in your skull for being so thick-headed, so help me god.”

Rick stands up, with Morgan’s finger still stabbing into his chest.

He’s a good couple inches taller than Morgan, and he looms over him. There’s an angry tension in the room so thick Daryl could cut it with his knife – Rick burns cold, and right now, Daryl can practically feel the arctic chill in the air.

Daryl desperately prays for no fistfight. He’d probably get crushed somehow in the scuffle.

In one smooth, brutal movement, Rick wrenches Morgan’s hand off of him and knocks it to the side. Morgan stumbles a couple steps back from the force of it, then braces himself for whatever’s coming next.

Rick doesn’t go for him, though. Doesn’t raise a hand to him. Not even an accusatory finger. He just... breathes heavily, like he’s actively trying to push all his anger out through his lungs or something.

“Fine!” Rick finally snarls. “Fine. I’ll go talk to him. Happy?”

“Overjoyed,” Morgan says dryly. He’s trying to be smooth and casual, and he mostly pulls it off. But Daryl can see that he’s still got that wary look in his eyes a guy gets when they’re waiting for the first punch to come. Daryl wonders just how dangerous Rick’s fists are, to make Morgan look like that. “Take the rest of the day off, too, you bitchy workaholic.”

“ _You_ – ”

“Yeah, yeah, keep barking, asshole.” Morgan walks away without listening or letting Rick finish, just sipping at his coffee. His office door slams shut with a loud bang that echoes in the office.

A few minutes later on his way out the station, Rick slams the door behind him, too. In spades.

-

The second Rick leaves the building in a huff, Daryl has eyes on the smiling man again.

Looks like it hasn’t moved an inch. Must’ve been watching through the police station’s front window the whole time they were in there. Waiting.

No... not just waiting.

It trails after Rick as he goes, drifting through the air like a fog. Carefully, slowly, trying not to alert Rick to its presence in any way. The smile is stretched wide, but the eyes are sharp and calculating. Daryl can see its blood-dripping aura in the reflections of the shop windows they pass, like a shadowy stain, and the gleam of its knife flickers as it experimentally fingers the handle.

Daryl breaks out in a cold sweat.

Hunting.

It’s _hunting_ them.

Rick is stalking towards his car in a seething rage, muttering under his breath about high and mighty assholes, and doesn’t seem to notice.

Daryl watches as it creeps closer, frozen with horror as he counts down the distance between Rick and that sharp knife.

Forty feet, thirty feet – 

Rick stiffens as he reaches the car, and there’s a sharp inhalation of fear. Daryl bets he sees the smiling man in the reflection of the car windows, sees it getting closer –

_Twenty_ feet – 

Oh god, it’s going to _kill_ Rick –

_Ten_ feet –

Oh, god, what is Daryl going to _do_ –

“Officer Grimes,” a calm voice says from off to the side.

Daryl blinks.

Rick turns, and Bob Stookey is there, stark against the faded brick wall of the alleyway next to the parking lot.

“Uh,” Rick says eloquently. “Mr. Bob Stookey.”

“That’s me,” Bob says companionably. He steps up to Rick’s side, and claps a hand on Rick’s shoulder. “See you’ve got some problems, there.”

Daryl can see Rick subtly checking for the smiling man in the window’s reflection. Yeah. It’s still there.

Slowed down a hell of a lot, though.

Daryl desperately wants to tell Rick to extend this conversation for as long as possible. He clenches his eyes shut and thinks it as loudly as he can, even though he knows it won’t do any good. Please, Rick, just keep talking, keep that horrible thing from getting to you, just a little longer.

Something must go through, because instead of brushing off Stookey’s hand, or ending the conversation and leaving for that Hershel guy’s place –

Instead, Rick attempts a laugh.

Turns out a little hollow, stilted, but Daryl thinks it’s a good effort. Especially given that there’s an invisible serial killer a foot or two behind him with a sharp knife, waiting to kill him.

Yeah. Pretty damn good.

“I guess I got a few, yeah. Just like anyone.”

“Hm,” Bob says noncommittally. “Sure.”

Then, Bob’s eyes flick from Rick’s, and they land on whatever the thing is behind him. The smiling man.

He sees it, Daryl thinks wildly. He sees it, he sees it too, how can he see it –

Then Bob’s eyes are back on Rick, and there’s a crook of a smile at the edge of his mouth.

“I got some of my own, too,” Bob says easily. “But I think you could use this a little more than me right now, huh?”

He unties the woven hemp bracelet from his wrist, the one with two silver dimes hanging on it, and holds it out in the palm of his steady hand.

“Take it,” Bob says. “It’ll help.”

His voice was so light and casual before, Daryl realizes. Right now, it’s heavy and deep, and his eyes have turned serious. He’s not even in the same _vicinity_ of fucking around.

When Rick doesn’t move to take it, Bob presses the bracelet further into Rick’s space. “Humor me,” Bob says.

After an agonizingly long moment, Rick holds out his arm. Bob ties it onto his wrist in a complicated knot before he pulls back and nods in satisfaction.

Bob’s eyes flick back to the smiling man, just for a fleeting half-second. Daryl spins around, and – there is no smiling man. It’s totally disappeared. “See you ‘round, officer.”

“You too, Mr. Stookey,” Rick says, sounding a touch off-kilter, watching as Bob walks away.

Because he’s looking for it, Daryl sees what Rick doesn’t, right then. The smiling man is gone, poof, out of here, temporarily banished –

And one of the silver dimes on the hemp string has suddenly gone an ashy, dirty black.

Yeah. That’s no ordinary bracelet.

-

The drive after that is kind of anticlimactic.

They get into traffic, Rick has to honk at some idiot who almost swerves into him, and they pull into a parking lot full of way nicer cars. Mercedez-Benz, Jaguar, Audi – those sorts of heavyweight brand names. They make Rick’s Ford look like a piece of shit. No smiling man in sight.

Rick steps into the building and Daryl has to resist the urge to whistle. Swanky place. Chandeliers, paintings, rugs, ornate furniture, the works.

Rick steps up to the front desk and says, “Hi, Rick Grimes, here to see Doctor Greene.”

The receptionist smiles at him. “He’s finishing up something from his last appointment, but he’ll be out shortly to get you.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Doctor Greene.

So. Doctor, stress triggers, seeing things, angry and concerned boss...

Daryl’s pretty sure Rick’s going to see his shrink.

-

Sure enough, _Dr. Hershel Greene, Psychiatrist_ is embossed in sharp, neat black letters on a bronze nameplate when Rick finally gets called back. It’s been set on the edge of a small writing table that’s wedged into a corner.

Since it’s a shink’s office, Daryl’s a little miffed that there’s no couch. Seems like the kind of thing a shrink’s office should have. Instead, there’s two leather chairs, a nice thick throw rug, some lamps, and a couple small tables. The rest is just... space. There’s a few paintings up on the walls, sure, and they’re huge, but somehow, instead of crowding in on them, the paintings make it seem like the room expands on and on forever. Something to do with the endless skies and mountains that span into the distance – it’s like they can see the whole world from up here, right in this office.

Hershel is sitting across from Rick with his hands folded together in his lap. He’s got kindly crinkles etched around his keen eyes, and a bushy white beard framing his face.

“I talked to Sheriff Jones earlier today,” he says pleasantly.

Rick snorts. “Yeah, so I heard.”

“Seems to think you’ve had it rough. All the fatalities you’ve stumbled upon recently, the hallucination the day before yesterday...”

Rick clears his throat. “Actually. Uh. I had another one today. After the... After I found Mr. Jenner in the storeroom.”

Hershel blinks rapidly. Daryl doesn’t think he expected Rick to say anything like that. Like it’s far from the ordinary. “Oh, my. What did you see?”

“Same one as yesterday. A man floating behind me, smiling, holding a knife.”

Hershel hums and writes something down on his notepad. “Okay. Same one... interesting.”

Rick sits back further in his chair, and his long legs cross at the ankles. “Interesting’s one word for it,” he says heavily.

“What’s another one?”

Rick chews on that for a minute. “Maybe... Uh. Terrifying?”

“Because you don’t usually see the same things?”

“Yeah,” Rick admits. “Usually they’re little things, little weird, fuzzy, can’t even really remember them for very long afterwards. Like little bits and pieces of dreams. But this one... It was sharp as a photograph. I can still see him in my mind, I could identify him in a police line-up, that’s how clear it was. Like he was _real_. And then I see him again today – the exact same man – and I just. It’s... I mean, this kind of thing’s only happened to me once before.”

“With the – ?”

“With the Lori one,” Rick finishes curtly. “Yeah.”

Hershel’s quiet for a minute. He’s looking at Rick with a frown, like he’s a puzzle Hershel can’t ever hope to solve. Daryl’s had that pointed at him, sometimes; usually when he’d go into a store and the people behind the counter thought he was up to no good. It never fails to get his hackles up. Even now, Daryl’s a little on edge from that look, even though it’s not even pointed at him.

“...You’ve said before,” Hershel starts delicately as if he knows Rick’s defensive and irrationally irritated, just like Daryl is right now. “That you usually see maybe three to four memorable hallucinations per month.”

“Right.”

“And now you’ve seen two in just three days, and it’s the same one?”

“Yeah,” Rick agrees. “It’s weird, I know. And it’s the same thing that happened with the Lori episode. I saw her at least once a day for two months straight, and she looked as real as she could be every single time. Almost... hyper-realistic.”

Hershel sits back in his chair, too, and strokes at his beard. “So, you’re having a similar episode. Do you know what triggered the first one?”

Rick shakes his head vehemently. “Can’t be sure what it was,” he says. “At the time... Well, uh. There was a lot going on. The divorce, the rehabilitation, the, uh.”

“Sexuality crisis?” Hershel supplies kindly.

Daryl chokes on his own spit.

_Sexuality_ crisis?

He’s pretty sure his mind just overloaded for a second there.

Rick coughs a little too loud for it to be real. “Yeah. That. So. Lots of stressful things were going on. Can’t really pin it down.”

“Maybe... it was _all_ of it,” Hershel says thoughtfully. “Are there a lot of things going on right now, too? Is that why?”

Daryl doesn’t think so. Rick basically goes to work, eats, and sleeps. Sometimes he seems a little depressed, a little lonely, maybe, and Daryl supposes the basement case and the Jenner case would be hard on anybody, but. Doesn’t really sound like Rick’s life is falling apart or anything.

Rick leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He rubs his face, pinches the bridge of his nose.

“...No?” he says uncertainly. “The only thing that’s been happening lately are the gory cases. The basement and the storeroom. Two days ago, and then today.”

Hershel cocks his head to the side. His frown is deeper than before. “Huh. And how many little episodes were you having before yesterday?”

Rick spreads his arms out to the sides. “None! Absolutely none. They slowed down after I started the meds, and eventually stopped pretty much altogether. Before yesterday I hadn’t seen one in weeks.” He slumps a little. “I thought...” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

Hershel sets down his notepad and pen on his writing table, and leans forward. He’s watching Rick intently. His eyes are kind.

“Maybe,” Hershel says gently. “We should consider having you take some time off from police work, to make sure it’s not related.”

Rick sighs. “Knew you’d say that.”

Hershel’s twinkle a little. “Did you now. I’ll make a psychiatrist out of you yet.”

Rick huffs a little laugh. “We’ll see about that, Doc.”

Hershel grins a little. Then he glances at the clock, and says with a touch of surprise, “Oh. Looks like we’re out of time. When are you available next week?”

-

Rick doesn’t turn on the radio on the drive home. Instead of humming under his breath to whatever music is on, he’s silent the whole way back. Pensive. Roiling with nervous energy.

It’s such a small thing, but... somehow, it feels big.

Daryl wonders what Rick sees for in the rearview mirror. Wonders if he’s looking for a stretched, grotesque smile and a sharp, wicked knife.

When the sound of gravel crackles under Rick’s crappy tires, Daryl sinks down in the pouch in relief. They’re back home, and the smiling man hasn’t gotten Rick.

Not yet.

-

Daryl’s finally free of his pouch prison when Rick slings his belt back on its hook in the front hall and shuffles off to the kitchen. He drags himself out, and climbs down the belt hand-over-hand until he’s hanging only a few inches off the ground. Daryl takes a breath before letting go.

His legs explode with pins and needles when his feet hit the floor. It’s not a great feeling. Daryl tries to speed it up a little by stomping his feet on the ground, which, total agony.

After another five minutes of wincing past the pain, Daryl wobbles across the hall and sinks to the ground. He rolls underneath the door and on to the front porch.

Thank god, he can pee at last.

-

It’s a quiet night at the Grimes house.

Rick cooks up some spaghetti for himself, and the smell of the tomato sauce sinks into the kitchen like a glimpse of heaven. Daryl’s thinking about stealing some, afterwards. It’s been a long time since he’s eaten any cooked food, and just the idea of it is making him salivate, let alone the scent.

There’s a tinkling of silverware and porcelain as Rick goes to town on a mountain of spaghetti that’s probably taller than Daryl is right now. Daryl watches from a shadowy corner, tucked away in between cabinet trim where Rick would never think to look.

There’s a sliver of light from the hallway, and the buzzing lights in the kitchen are set lower than usual. The light hits the edge of his forehead and runs down his jaw, his collarbones, his shoulders – and somehow, that thin bright line makes the dark shadows in the kitchen even darker in the hollows and crevices of his face.

Looks like Rick is way worse for wear than he was yesterday. Hell, even the day before, when the basement thing happened. Whatever it was. He’s drawn and pale, and even though he’s trying to smooth it into a normal, blank expression, it’s clear from the way the lines of his brow crinkle and pinch that something’s going on in there. And it’s nothing good.

Maybe this was the same expression that had Morgan all up in arms. It sure looks like Rick’s in pain and trying to hide it. Daryl’s lips draw tight in displeasure, and he shakes his head. The man needs to start taking better care of himself.

Rick puts the dishes in the sink when he’s done, and goes for a decaf coffee. He sits on the couch in the living room for a while with his mug, flipping channels on the TV watching serials. He seems to really like the ones that have something to do with puzzles or strategies. He watches an entire History Channel exposé on the combat strategies of the Japanese during the Russo-Japanese war, and how they won so easily with only a fraction of the forces. It’s real interesting, even to someone like Daryl who never learned about any of that type of stuff when he was a kid.

The sound of the narrator’s voice is calm, deep, and crisply British. It’s soothing, and the words melt from written letters into liquid syllables the longer he talks. He can’t see the screen from here, but the story develops in Daryl’s mind as easy as can be from the narrator’s sinuous storytelling.

He can see why Rick likes these kinds of shows.

When the decaf’s gone and the program’s titles roll, Rick rinses his cup and heads up to bed. He flicks the lights off as he goes.

When he’s sure Rick isn’t coming down again, Daryl springs to his feet and sprints over to his pulley.

Time to get himself some of that spaghetti.

He chugs upwards in his little elevator and flips his way up onto the countertop like an old pro. The bulk of the extra spaghetti went into the fridge, but there’s some bits and pieces still left on Rick’s unwashed plate.

Gross? Maybe a little.

Daryl’s had to eat much, much grosser things, though, so he don’t mind.

He ties a string of floss to the faucet and cautiously scales down into the sink. There’s not a lot of dishes inside it, so it’s easy enough to get to the right plate.

He snags some pasta remnants, dips them into sauce, and digs in. His brain practically explodes with serotonin the second the tomato sauce touches down on his tongue – pure bliss. He scarfs it down as quick as he can, until his pace is forced to slow down because his belly is practically bursting.

He licks the traces of sauce off his fingers and glows with happiness. Damn, he has to get some more of this shit tomorrow.

Satisfied, he heads back up his floss rope to the counter top by the window. He unties it and wraps it up again, throwing it over his shoulder. The windowpane glints in the corner of his eye as he turns to go, a kaleidoscope of purples, pinks, and yellows. Daryl takes a moment and looks out at the sunset through the window, and it’s –

Wait just a goddamn second.

Yeah, sure, the sunset’s beautiful and all, whatever, but –

There, hovering in the nearby foliage, partially hidden by shadows and tree trunks – there he is. The smiling man. Standing there and sharpening his wicked, curved knife.

-

Yeah, Daryl freaks out a little. And by a little, he means a lot.

After he scurries down the elevator, hoping beyond hope that the thing that’s outside hasn’t seen him, Daryl bursts out of the cabinets on a new mission.

He’s got to protect this house, and Rick, however he can.

-

When he was a kid, Daryl wasn’t exactly unfamiliar with the backwoods and dirty corners of Georgia. He’d run into his fair share of hoodoo doctors, pagan hillbillies, low-key Satanists, the works. There were a couple that Daryl’d listened to, and when he was young and dumb enough, actually believed.

One of them was Ole Missy, a great-great grandmother that had enough wrinkles for three people and spit as black as the tobacco that was always in her mouth. She had dark brown skin and bright, keen green eyes, and was rumored to be over two hundred years old. Sometimes she’d have a hotpot, where everybody around would gather around her house and eat together, and she’d sit out on her front porch in her rocking chair, chewing tar and snapping things ever so often in her loud, hoarse voice.

The things she’d said were crazy, unbelievable things – once Daryl’d hit his teens, he realized just how unbelievable they all were.

Now, though –

Now, things are different.

Daryl sprinkles salt and pepper in all the corners of ground floor of the house, and makes a small salt cross in front of all the doors. He makes sure to sprinkle some salt and pepper into Rick’s boots while he’s at it, since they’re sitting right there at the front door.

See, Ole Missy had croaked at him once, “Salt, boy, salt – got summa dat around yo house, and ain’t nobody alive can get in atcha. Salt and pepper, yeah, salt n’ pepper too.”

She’d pointed her gnarled finger at him, pinning him in place, and explained for the next hour in detail all the different things people could do with salt. All because she’d overheard Daryl mention to Merle that the soup tonight was awful salty. He’d listened more raptly to her sermon that night than he ever had in church.

There was another witch doctor that Daryl’d run into a couple times, and his name was Rene. He was slippery like a snake, young and strong and charming. Merle’d hated his guts, always thought he was trying to con everyone around him – not that Daryl didn’t think so too. Rene was a tricky son of a bitch, to be sure.

But there was one time when a bunch of them were getting drunk in a seedy little bar, and Rene’d dropped something outta his pocket, something that Rene practically dove to the ground to recover.

Somebody’d asked what it was, and Rene’d said, “Shit, brother, this here’s a chip of black haw.” What the hell’s a black haw, someone else asked. Rene had laughed. “Black haw? Hobblebush? Devil’s shoestring? Don’t let a single evil thing near ya, have it in yer house.”

Daryl’d snorted at the time. Now, he’s digging in the goddamn dirt around honeysuckles with his bare hands to try and get him some of that Devil’s shoestring, wearing a fucking ridiculous garlic clove necklace to ward off any smiling men on the premises.

He finds a couple of ‘em, and drags them back in the house as quiet as he can. Stuffs them away in places Rick won’t find ‘em.

Daryl puts little protection charms inside pouches on Rick’s holster belt, too. His lucky buckeyes go with the cell phone, a clover goes with the spray, and he makes sure there’s some grins of salt scattered around in all of ‘em.

Last but not least, Daryl slowly takes off his silver pendant of Saint Hubert, patron saint of hunters. He kisses its metal face, rubs a thumb affectionately over the engraving, and finally ties it to Rick’s keychain, where it’ll probably be hidden in the hodgepodge of keys and plastic member cards until kingdom come.

-

When he’s wracked his brain a hundred more times and still come up with nothing else useful to barricade the house with, Daryl starts up the night watch.

He clambers up the counter to the window again, to where he saw the smiling man before, and sits there gripping his crossbow with one hand and his knife with the other. He’s treated both of them in various things, salt and pepper and Devil’s shoestring roots alike, and hell if he knows if they’ll work or not on a guy like this, but Daryl guesses it’s better than nothing.

The smiling man’s still there.

Even though the sun’s going down and everything’s darkening, Daryl can still see him. The glint of his knife and his crazy, bulbous eyes will always give him away. Daryl has very sharp eyes, and he knows what to look for now.

Once the horizon line blots out every last trace of sunlight and the clouds dip into black, the smiling man finally moves. Darkness must hold a power for him, or at least some sort of cloak, because once there’s not a single ray of direct sunlight, he snaps out of place and glides towards the house.

Daryl’s heart rate rockets up at record speed.

Every step the smiling man takes, the more solid he becomes. His gliding becomes heavier and heavier, until his shoes are stepping down into the grass, crushing fresh green blades instead of air.

Now that he’s corporeal, his strange aura appears too. Turns out, his entire outfit is dripping in blood. It runs down his arms, leaks out his shoes, and squirts into the grass. Daryl would wonder where it came from, but given the events of today he’s pretty sure that it’s eau de Jenner.

The smiling man adjusts his grip on his knife and takes leisurely steps up the porch. He reaches the front door and strikes, thrusts the knife right into the wood –

There’s a flash, and a scream, and the man is blown backwards by at least ten feet. He’s sprawled on the front lawn, his snapped limbs going every which way. He’s angry as hell, it’s clear as day on his face, but his lips are still stretched in a horrific parody of a smile.

The smiling man rolls to his feet, swaying in a disturbing, ungainly way, and his limbs start cracking and rolling until all his broken bones shift back into place.

Holy shit. Daryl didn’t think that was even humanly possible, even after accepting the whole magic thing.

Then the man lifts his arms, and cuts his palm in an alarmingly familiar way. He’s chanting, from the rote way his lips are moving, and he’s holding out his hand so that his blood drips into the earth.

He did exactly the same thing right before he sent one of his mountain lion familiars after Daryl in the forest.

Well, fuck.

-

Daryl sprints over to the stairs as fast as he can, and bites down on his knife as he hauls himself up step by step. He has to get there before the smiling man’s familiar does, or Rick is as good as dead.

Just ten steps left – shit, was that a window breaking? Shit. Eight steps.

There’s a soft slithering sound coming from the kitchen. Six steps.

It’s getting closer. He can hear it behind him, starting to slide up the steps. Daryl doesn’t stop to look around. Four.

He can hear its hiss, and the faintest hint of a rattle. Fuck, it’s a rattlesnake. Just one more step –

Daryl flings himself onto the second floor and crashes on the wood before jumping up to his feet and tearing down the hallway towards Rick’s bedroom. He tries to awkwardly pull the door closed from the outside, and it swings towards him, but not far enough. There’s at least six inches of a gap that the snake could get through. He doesn’t have time for this.

It’ll have to do. Daryl turns around slowly, and nocks an arrow in his crossbow. There it is, brushing its belly on the smooth wooden floor, curling closer and closer towards Rick’s room. Towards Daryl.

Daryl sucks in a breath and takes aim.

His arrow clips it, sliding right by its eye and cutting into its cheek. Shit. He grabs another arrow, nocks it –

Shit. The second one hit the damn thing, but way too low – the rattlesnake reared up at the last second and it got it in the gut instead of the head.

Daryl really only has enough time for one more shot before this becomes close combat. He narrows his eyes, relaxes his shoulders, and pulls the trigger.

The snake dodges it. Like it was expecting it.

Fuck. It’s smart.

Then it lunges, and Daryl tosses the crossbow aside and whips out the knife. He parries the first strike well enough, pushing it off balance enough for it to go careening into the wall headfirst.

“Ha,” Daryl mutters under his breath. “Take that, bitch.”

The snake shakes that off real quick and twists towards him again. Its fangs are practically oozing venom. Daryl’s legs get a little wobbly at the sight of that, but he stands tall anyway.

“Come on,” he breathes. “Come on, come on, _come on_ – ”

It lunges again, and this time Daryl is way more ready for it than last time. He keeps the knife steady and in place, and –

It buries itself right in the snake’s mouth, stabbing up through the brain and in between the eyes.

Thank fuck.

The snake drops, and Daryl lets it fall. He’ll get his knife in a minute, when his heart’s calmed down and he can breathe again. He collapses onto the ground, his trembling legs finally giving out on him, and wipes his bloody hands on his pants.

He lets out a shaky breath that’s so frantic it could probably be mistaken for a soft whistle. He staggers up to his feet, grabs his knife from the snake’s skull, and turns to the door to pick up his crossbow –

Daryl freezes.

The door is open.

More open than it was before.

Then there’s a flicker of movement, and there’s pajama pants and bare feet right in his immediate sightline. Daryl’s lungs fill with an indescribable dread instead of air.

Oh god.

He looks up, and yeah –

Rick is standing there, one hand on his doorknob, staring at him.


	3. Atropos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for gore, body horror, mutilation because the smiling man is a messed up motherfucker
> 
> also sorry for the wait this chapter kicked my ass

Daryl thinks to himself in a daze –

Wow, Rick’s eyes are _so blue_.

He’s never seen Rick’s face full-on before, never seen his eyes close enough that he could catch the color, but there it is, and _shit_ , fuck, it’s mesmerizing, his gaze is pinning Daryl to the spot like a butterfly on corkboard –

Then the floor creaks under Rick’s foot, a horrible, drawn-out screech of old, misaligned planks scraping together, and Daryl snaps out of it. Rick’s a hell of a lot closer than he was a second ago, looming over Daryl like some sort of vast primordial titan. At this angle, Rick’s backlit by the overhead lamp, and – his shadow is blotting out the light as it cautiously slithers closer.

Only one thing to think.

Rick’s seen him, and he’s after him.

Daryl dashes down the hallway with his crossbow like his life depends on it – maybe it does, he doesn’t know – and there’s a stunned silence behind him. Right until he starts hopping down the stairs.

Then –

“ _Hey_!” Rick roars, booming through the hallway like some sort of all-powerful, angry god.

Daryl can hear thundering footsteps, chasing after him like some sort of raging bull.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” Daryl chants breathlessly along with his racing heartbeat. Sweat breaks out over his whole body, making the wooden crossbow handle slide in his palm, and he’s forced to let it clatter to the floor to keep up his fast pace. He careens around the corner of the hallway and into the kitchen, and the floor beneath him is starting to tremble from the oncoming Rick-shaped hurricane. He can see the cabinet from here, it’s still ajar –

He dives for that thin sliver of safety, for his _den_ , so close he can almost taste the cheap canned tomato sauce –

Daryl tumbles into the cabinet, and scrabbles for purchase on some canned peaches. He grips the edge and heaves himself over onto the silver top, and starts jumping from can to can like he’s hopping across rocks in a riverbed. Beans, soup, soup, vegetables, sauce –

He throws himself headfirst into his den, thudding on the wooden floor he built himself with a nasty sound that probably spells out some bruised ribs. There’s a clatter of his knife falling out of its sheath, but right now he couldn’t give less of a shit about it, and keeps moving. He’s a little out of breath, but he drags himself into one of the hallways he carved out, the one that goes deep into the back of the wall, the one where he’s stored all his food.

Daryl tucks himself in the very back of his cellar, right in the far, far corner, and burrows down into the foam behind some water cups. His heart feels like it’s not working right, going on double overtime, and his breath is pained and shaky from his hurt ribs. But he forces himself to be quiet, and to shrink into the space, like he’s done a thousand times before. He shuts his eyes. Smaller and smaller and smaller.

There’s the barest hint of a sound, out there.

Like the soft brush of a bare foot on tile.

The hairs on the back of Daryl’s neck prickle up. A second ago, Rick was barreling through the house with all the subtlety of a screaming hyena. Now he’s as quiet as a fucking mouse. Whatever Rick’s up to, he’s being pretty damn careful about it. Doesn’t really bode well for Daryl.

He holds his breath, and incoherently prays to whatever is listening – just a litany of please, please, please, please, _please_ –

A minute goes by. There’s the hum of the fridge, and the burn of Daryl’s breath caught in his throat, but other than that...

Nothing happens.

Daryl cracks an eye open with a frown. This... isn’t what he expected. He forcibly relaxes his clenched fists, flexing out the stiffness, and creeps out of the cellar and towards the hole in the wall. He makes sure every step is quiet as can be, like he’s in the forest, crawling over his handmade wooden floors and plastic buckets like they’re tree roots and bushes.

He peers into the cabinet. The door is still cracked open, right where Daryl’d left it when he dove inside it. Nothing seems to have moved since.

Did Rick just... give up? Did he figure he’d seen something his brain made up again, and just decided to forget about it?

A spark of hope flares up. Maybe Daryl’s in the clear.

He inches closer to the cabinet door, and peeks into the kitchen. Daryl’s pretty sure he heard Rick come in after him, but he can’t see anything out of the ordinary. He glances around, just to make sure, and leans out a bit further, but... yeah. There’s nothing.

Daryl heaves out a sigh. Good. Looks like Daryl’s good to go, at least for now.

‘Now’ lasts a couple more seconds.

Then there’s a flurry of movement above him, a smooth, quick scrape, what the fuck –

_Shit_ , that must be Rick, he must be up on the counter –

A plastic cup crashes over Daryl like a prison and wrenches him over, trapping him against the floor with an echoing thud that shakes the bones in his ears like a goddamn drum line.

“Agh,” Daryl groans through the side of his mouth that isn’t mashed into the ground. His ribs hurt like hell, now. If he’s busted one or two of them, breathing’s gonna give him shit for, like, the next two months. He lays there for a second, stuck in that spike of pain, until he musters up enough energy to drag himself up to his knees. Yeah, ow. Daryl steadies himself with a hand on the plastic wall of the cup, and leans back carefully to avoid jostling his tender ribs.

Daryl shakes off the dark blurriness that’s tunneling his vision, and looks up at the clear cup trapping him here. An enormous hand casts a deep shadow over him through the plastic, before it shifts and flips the cup over in one lightning fast movement.

“Fuck!” Daryl gasps. He scrabbles on the smooth plastic around him, but it doesn’t help. He flips upside-down along with the cup, and smashes into the base right where it hurts his ribs the worst.

Daryl groans. Figures.

He pants into the plastic, drawing into himself, unconsciously protecting his chest with his arms. _Fuck_ , it hurts.

There’s a swoop in his stomach as the cup lifts at least four feet up into the air. They start walking, and every step jars inside Daryl’s chest like his bones are made of glass shrapnel. It’s agonizing, but it’s over soon, at least; Rick sets the cup down on the kitchen table, and Daryl can hear his chair legs scrape on the floor as he takes his seat.

Daryl turns a little bit away from the sound, not ready for Rick to start – well, to start whatever the fuck he’s gonna do.

But Rick is quiet. Doesn’t say a goddamn thing.

Daryl squeezes his eyes shut as tight as they can go. It’s inevitable, but he wants to put off looking at Rick for as long as he can. He doesn’t even know why – is he angry for getting caught? Embarrassed? Terrified? All he knows is, whatever the emotion is, it’s pretty much eating him up the longer he waits.

And he waits a long time. Rick doesn’t say a word. If Daryl couldn’t hear him breath and shift around ever so often, he wouldn’t be sure if Rick was still sitting there. Daryl doesn’t know what the hell Rick’s thinking. Finding a tiny-ass man running around in your house? Not in the fucking manual, that’s for sure.

What might be five minutes or a whole hour later, fuck if Daryl can tell with all the adrenaline pumping through his system, Rick deflates with a slow sigh.

Daryl doesn’t dare look up. He knows it’s probably not going to change anything, but. Still.

Rick clears his throat. “Now, I could just be seein’ things again,” he starts. “But if I can see you, hear you, feel you, and you don’t disappear, well. That’s a little more hard proof than I’m used to. So much that – ” He cuts himself off. “Point is, I don’t know if you’re real or not, so I’m gonna do the decent thing and treat you like you are. Even if you are, uh, impossible.”

He pauses, like he’s waiting for Daryl to say something.

But Merle practically seared it in his brain, a long time ago – _don’t talk, don’t you give them a damn thing. Pigs know your weaknesses, they use ‘em. Get what they want, kick you to the curb._ A small voice inside Daryl screams that _Rick is different, you know him, he’s not them_ but the grit of his teeth and the pain in his ribs blots everything else out until the only thing left is a blinding, feral panic and Merle’s words stuck in his head like a skipping CD.

There’s a creak as Rick leans forward, closer to the cup.

Daryl’s head mindlessly whips up at that, he tenses, forces down a flinch. His wild, terrified eyes catch on Rick’s. His blue eyes are cool, clear, and Daryl can’t read them the way he can with other people – there’s not enough showing on the surface, it’s all hidden somewhere deep in the dark depths that Daryl’d have to drown in to be able to see.

Rick’s eyes narrow. Then his mouth tightens, and he leans back a bit in his chair.

Daryl relaxes a bit with the extra distance. Still feels like Rick is seeing right through him, ready to pounce at any time, but the extra space makes Daryl feel a little less under fire.

They study each other in silence.

“You... look hurt,” Rick says at last.

Daryl almost rolls his eyes. No shit. He’s only clutching at his wounds and writhing on the ground in pain.

Rick must get some of what he’s thinking from the look on his face, because he huffs a surprised laugh. “Okay, okay. Point taken.” He cocks his head to the side and peers down at him curiously. “Guess what I was trying to say was... Anything I can do?”

Daryl’s baffled by the question. He blinks a few times, and casts his gaze around the corners of the room looking for the right answer. Unfortunately, he doesn’t find it written out on the counter, the wall, or on the ceiling, so he’s forced to improvise – he gives the tiniest little shake of his head.

“Come on,” Rick coaxes. “Some pain medicine? Bandages? Must be something.”

Daryl shakes his head more forcefully this time.

“Stubborn bastard,” Rick mutters. He crosses his arms. “Look, you’re in my custody. Means I have responsibilities over your well-being and respecting your civil rights, and that includes emergency medical care. So. Either you’re indefinitely detained _with_ medical supplies, or without them. Your choice.”

Daryl wavers. He hates owing anyone anything, and learned a long time ago not to trust people who offer things too good to be true, especially if they’re a cop, but, well...

This is _Rick_.

Daryl bites his lip and gives a hesitant little nod.

There’s a swooping in his stomach, like he’s free-falling, and he gets why people call it a leap of faith.

-

A sixteenth of a pill, a ripped up cotton swab, a strip of Scotch tape, and twenty drops of water later, Daryl is feeling up on cloud nine. He’s also high as a kite from all that drug stuff, which, wow. Great. He feels good. A little sleepy, even. Rick wouldn’t mind if Daryl took a nap, would he? No, Rick’s nice. Crazy nice. Wow, he might be too nice. That’s okay, though. Daryl can be not-nice enough for both of them, if he has to.

He snuggles into the cup’s curved knurling, rubbing his face on the nice, shiny plastic pillow, mumbles some random stuff that probably makes sense at the time, and goes straight to sleep.

-

The sun bleeds through his eyelids, and Daryl wakes up.

He’s groggy and everything feels heavy, but his chest is wrapped tightly in bandages and the pain in his ribs is down to a dull ache. He’s got a crick in his neck, and the plastic of the cup is sticking to his cheek, but he feels surprisingly good. Daryl cracks a yawn and gingerly sits up. He’s been covered with a soft blanket - well, a napkin, actually. It slides off of his shoulders and down onto his lap. It’s still warm from his body heat, and the cold air prickles at his exposed skin.

The clock says it’s six in the morning, which means hours have gone by since he fought off the snake familiar. When was that, like, three? Four? Daryl doesn’t remember. Last night seems like one adrenaline-filled blur.

Rick is sitting in his regular kitchen chair with him arms crossed, like a warden. But his head is lying back on the top rail, facing the ceiling, and his breathing is even.

Asleep, then.

He can’t help but notice that the cut of Rick’s jaw and his Adam’s apple jut out like they’re cut from stone, but his reclining neck looks so delicate and his stubble looks so _velvety_ –

Daryl swallows loudly and wrenches his eyes away. His mouth should not be watering this much.

 

He stands on trembling legs and backs up as far as he can go. Maybe this is his chance to escape, while Rick is sleeping. He can’t help fight off the smiling man for him while being stuck in this cup, that’s for sure.

With a bit of a running start, he throws his entire body into the cup wall and it topples over. Daryl hits his chest hard, and stars burst in his vision from the pain. The cup rolls a little, making him dizzy as well as faint, but Daryl fights through it, trying to crawl out on his elbows and out onto the table –

There’s a sharp inhale and the screech of a chair leg.

Shit. He woke up Rick.

Daryl rolls on his side onto the tabletop, ignoring the pain, and goes for the precipice –

He’s too slow, though, because right as he rolls off the edge, the cup is there to catch him. He lands with a thump, back right where he was at the start. Rick puts him back on the kitchen table, right in the center where he was before.

Daryl groans and thunks his forehead against his plastic prison cell. This shit is frustrating as hell. If he was just fucking _regular_ sized...

“Where were we,” Rick starts dryly. “Okay. Why don’t we set some ground rules. Rule one: no escape attempts. They’ll aggravate your injuries.”

Daryl glares at the ceiling, but doesn’t argue.

“Rule two: you need anything, you ask. S’long as you cooperate, you’ll get it.”

“Need to not be in this plastic cup,” Daryl mutters sourly. Rick skips over that like he didn’t hear it. Daryl figured as much.

“Now, I got a couple questions for you, and seeing as you been in my house for god knows how long, I’d like you to answer.” Rick holds up his crossbow in between his thumb and forefinger, and places it carefully on the tabletop. Then he holds up the dead snake, and puts that right next to it. Then he looks at Daryl expectantly, and asks levelly, “So. What the hell happened last night?”

Daryl bites his lip. Honestly he doesn’t know where to start.

“Complicated,” he says shortly.

Rick raises an eyebrow. “Try me.”

Daryl feels that free-fall swoop in his gut again. “Fine,” he grumbles. “You ain’t gonna believe a word of it, though.”

“I found a miniature man living in my house,” Rick points out. “I think I can suspend some of my disbelief, at least for the time being.”

Daryl grunts. “Whatever. Don’t matter, I guess.” He tracks his eyes over the snake’s carcass, lingering on the arrow still lodged in its body. “Uh... It’s...” He frowns and shakes his head. “It’s... hard to explain.”

Rick’s eyes study him intently. “I hear the best place to start is usually the beginning.”

Daryl chews on that. Beginning. What if there’s more than one, depending on who’s asking?

He thinks back to how he felt in that hole in the ground, holding his breath and listening for crunching leaves. How he felt like everything was just some horrible nightmare, and that all he wanted to do was wake up. He wonders if that’s how Rick feels, right now. Daryl doesn’t know if it’s the beginning Rick wants to hear, but it’s what he’s gonna get. It’s the best start he can think of.

“I got shrunk,” Daryl grumbles reluctantly. “Was out in the forest, got shrunk, got chased. Ended up here in yer backyard. Had to make do.”

“You weren’t always this size?”

Daryl eyeballs him. “No.”

“How – ” Rick visibly restrains himself from asking the question, like he doesn’t know if he’s being rude or not. Daryl takes pity on him.

“How did I get shrunk,” Daryl finishes bluntly. “Some asshole did it. ‘S the same asshole from last night, the one who sent in the snake. Prob’ly still out there. You know him.”

His forehead crinkles. “I do?”

Daryl suppresses a sigh. “Yeah. Creepy smiling dude? Carries a knife around? Floats? Ringin’ any bells?”

Rick goes very, very still.

The look on his face shifts, too – something about it goes flat and cold. Daryl hadn’t noticed how warm it’d gotten, but it’s pretty clear, now that it’s gone.

“You – ” Rick’s voice is deeper, scarier, angrier. “How do you know about that.”

Daryl looks up at him warily. “Uh... I just told you, he shrunk me.”

Rick’s eyes go wild and feverish, and he leaps to his feet and starts pacing around the kitchen like a trapped animal. “You’re not real,” he says, practically gnashing his teeth. “I’m making you up. You’re just like the smiling man, you’re – _both_ of you are – I’m not really seeing you, I’m seeing, seeing _things_ , I’m – ”

Rick clenches his fists and comes to an abrupt halt. Then his head whips around, like a coiling snake. “You’re not real,” he spits, and stomps towards the front door.

“No!” Daryl shouts, and springs to his feet in alarm. “Rick, _don’t_ , he’s – it’s – it’s – that smiling asshole is _out there_! And he’s gonna _kill_ you!”

Rick stops with his hand on the doorknob.

His eyes are cold.

“I never told you my name,” he says dangerously, and the quiet way he says it, it’s – it’s like a ticking time-bomb, and the fuse is burning down to the end of the line.

Yeah. It’s pretty clear that Daryl just fucked up big time.

Okay, well, if Rick’s already decided he’s going outside, he might as well warn him – “Wait, just – don’t take the bracelet off, just keep it on, for _fuck’s sake_ – ”

“Shut up,” Rick snarls, and throws the door open and strides out onto the porch. A second goes by, and Daryl can hear him say – “Stop lying to me, nothing’s out here, you’re not even real, shut up, shut up, shut _up_ – Shit! Oh my g – ”

Rick’s feet stagger back, and he falls to the floor with a hard hit that makes Daryl wince. He feels like his heart’s stopped beating – Rick could be dead, for all he knows, that was _definitely_ the smiling man going in for the kill –

Then Daryl hears Rick scuffle backwards into the front hall on his elbows.

“Shit,” Rick mutters again. He kicks the door shut with a vengeance before he drops his head heavily onto the floor with a groan.

Daryl lets out a shaky breath.

Not dead, then.

He slumps back down in his plastic cage. Well, thank fuck for that.

-

There’s some stomping, and angry muttering. Daryl’s pretty sure he hears Rick hit something at some point, hard. Doesn’t know for sure if it was a door or a wall, but he’s pretty damn sure it was a fist on wood. He knows that sound better than the back of his dad’s hand.

Daryl doesn’t know why he’s doing it, exactly. Maybe he’s angry, maybe he’s scared, maybe he’s confused. Maybe he’s all three. Almost getting killed can do that to a man.

He listens to the muted sounds through the ceiling, thudding footsteps and half-snarls, and wonders with a tinge of sickly, irrational fear if Rick got hurt bad somehow.

-

Maybe ten minutes later, Rick is sitting in front of him again. Instead of his pajamas, he’s rocking jeans and a button-up. It’s a good look. Daryl also notices that he’s rocking a pretty suspicious glare through a black eye and a tightly bandaged bloody hand, which, not so much.

“You okay?” Daryl tries. Rick just keeps glaring. Daryl shrugs and tries to play it off. “Whatever.”

Rick wants to glare? Let him. Daryl can outwait anything. He picks at a hole in his shirt, right around the elbow. He’ll need to patch that, if he ever gets out of this damn cup.

Turns out he doesn’t have to wait that long at all, because less than a minute later, Rick bursts out with, “You’re not real.”

Daryl crosses his arms, but doesn’t say anything. What could he even say at this point, when Rick’s so determined to keep denying what’s right in front of him?

“You’re not,” he says again.

When Daryl checks his nails instead of offering up a response, Rick says it more emphatically, “You’re _not_.”

Daryl raises an eyebrow. “You tryin’ to convince yourself of that, or are you tryin’ to convince _me_? Cuz I gotta tell you. Not gonna get too far with that one.”

Tension crackles in the room with that, something to do with Daryl’s defensive, prickly tone. He’s pretty sure there’s going to be another ten minutes of petty bickering.

But then, to Daryl’s surprise, Rick deflates. “To tell you the truth, right now, it’s not getting all that far with me, either.”

He pulls off the bracelet Bob Stookey gave him, the one with the two silver dimes, and tosses it on the tabletop right next to the crossbow and snake carcass. It skims over the polished surface until it settles into place with a rattle, close enough to Daryl that he can see it clearly even through the blurred plastic.

The second dime’s gone ashy, just like the first one.

Rick’s eyes study Daryl – study, not glare – and Daryl weirdly feels simultaneously more normal and more awkward than usual. All the scrutiny makes him start to fidget.

“You said a couple things ‘fore I went outside, I think.” Rick tilts his head. “Said he’d be out there. Said he’d try to kill me. And... you said to keep the bracelet on.”

Daryl nods.

Rick eyes him curiously, like he didn’t expect him to confirm or deny that. “You got a reason for knowin’ all that?”

Daryl shrugs.

Rick’s expression hardens. “So, you ain’t gonna talk now? You were awful eager to before.”

Before. Must mean when Daryl was shouting at Rick to stay inside, away from the smiling man. _Yeah, to save your fuckin’ life_ , Daryl doesn’t say.

Daryl watches the minute twitches of the tendons in Rick’s nervous hands as he keeps them carefully still and in place in between his crossed arms. It’s like he’s locked up in there, in his own skin, and his police training is the only thing keeping his calm and controlled mask from cracking. Looks like he’s trying to wait Daryl out, see what he says. It’s good that he has Rick’s attention now, he guesses.

Problem is, Daryl has no fuckin’ idea what to say.

It might be okay to start off somewhere Rick would actually believe, make something up, maybe. Make him get with the program to save his own neck. Nah, he’d probably pick apart whatever Daryl could come up with anyway. Then they’d just be back to square one. Rick’d probably storm out again, and this time, he wouldn’t have Bob Stookey’s bracelet to protect him anymore.

So. Daryl needs to tell the truth. But what’s more, he’s gotta actually get Rick to believe him. A trailer trash hillbilly like him, talking shit about magic and curses to a hardboiled cop? And getting him on his side of the story? Uh huh. Sounds pretty damn impossible, and Daryl’s never been too good with words.

But this is Rick’s life in his hands. He’s got to try.

He licks his lips. “...‘M not much of a talker.”

“Well, I’m a helluvva listener,” Rick shoots back. “And I got all day.”

“Hmph.” Daryl wracks his brain for the right thing to say to just – get Rick to really start hearing what he’s telling him.

Unsurprisingly, he comes up empty.

Rick’s voice goes a shade more severe. “How much more time you need to finish cookin’ up yer story? Should I put on a timer?”

Daryl blinks up at him, hurt. “I ain’t gonna lie to you, I was just...”

“Just what?” He sounds so goddamn accusatory, like there’s nothing else Rick could imagine Daryl trying to do. Yeah, Daryl’s used to that, used to people thinking of him that way, but the fact that it’s _Rick_ twists the knife a little more than he can handle. Right into the soft, vulnerable parts between his ribcage.

“Just – ” He tries to force his way through it, but Daryl’s throat’s started to clam up. It happens sometimes, when everything gets too loud and angry.

“Just?”

Some of Daryl’s long-forgotten pride rises up at that and snarls. Worthless hillbilly or not, he’s a grown goddamn man, not a fucking four-year-old being told off by some smug asshole adult.

“ _Thinkin’_ ,” he snaps back. “That ain’t allowed in this pen?”

“Not unless you got somethin’ to show for it at the end of it,” Rick says, and his voice sounds... snide. Snide and _mean_.

Up until this point, right this second, Daryl thought talking to Rick would be different from talking to other cops, but right here, right now, this is like talking to Officer Friendly on the corner in front of the convenience store at any town in America. All undercut sneers and thinly veiled jibes.

It’d never bothered him too much, before, mostly because he’d expected it. It sure as hell bothers him right now. His eyes go hot and sting at the edges.

“Hmph.” Daryl crosses his arms and pointedly turns away. As in, he actually stands up, despite the state of his ribcage, which hurts like hell every time he moves or breathes or thinks, and sits with his back to Rick against the plastic cup wall.

Pretty damn clear what he means by it. No way Grimes can misinterpret that, no matter how much of an asshole he’s pretending to be.

Daryl angrily stares down at the plastic floor of his prison, trying to laser through it with the power of his glare, and pointedly doesn’t give a _shit_ about Rick _fuckin’_ Grimes.

Then Rick clears his throat, and his voice sounds miles different than it did a second ago. Hesitant, maybe. Tired. “Okay, we’re not getting very far, here.”

“No shit,” Daryl mutters to the cup floor. Maybe if Rick were a little _nicer_ , treated him like an actual _human being_ , Daryl wouldn’t have so much trouble getting to the fucking _point_. All this shit coming from him just... stings.

Rick is silent behind him.

Daryl tries not to let the hot, angry tears in the corners of his eyes bubble up to a boil. He’s successful. Mostly.

It takes a few minutes, but Daryl gets it under control. Yeah, he’s still angry and frustrated – hell, the man he saved from a terrible death thinks he’s either some sort of nasty hallucination, or some sort of jailhouse hick that’s bout as smart as a slug – but at least Rick isn’t gonna see him blubber like a baby because of it. That’s something.

Rick still hasn’t said anything, and Daryl isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of turning back around without a good reason, even though right now he really fucking wants to know what expression is on Rick’s face right now.

They’re both pretty stubborn assholes, so it stays that way for a while. Daryl sits in his sulk and Rick sits in his chair. Someone’s gonna have to swing by and dust the spider webs off them in the next couple weeks.

One thing Daryl knows for sure – _he_ ain’t gonna fold first. He’s a goddamn Dixon.

-

After some long, drawn-out stonewalling – Daryl’s facing away from the clock on the wall, so he doesn’t actually know how long it takes – Rick stands up, scraping the chair legs back on the floor with his calves like he always does. He goes around the kitchen, rummaging through the cabinets and fridge, and starts making breakfast.

There’s the sound of pots and pans clinking together, and one ends up sliding onto the stove. Eggs start cracking, and they hiss when they hit the pan. Rick starts sprinkling and mixing and whatever else people do to eggs, and the smell of omelets starts filling up the kitchen.

Daryl’s mouth starts watering.

Damn, that smells good.

Not as good as the spaghetti did, but still. Pretty damn good.

Rick eats it at the table, right behind Daryl. Silverware clinks and clacks around on the plate, and every tang of stainless steel on porcelain rings in Daryl’s ears like torture.

_Damn_ , he wants a piece of that goddamn omelet.

After he finishes up, Rick washes up the dishes and puts the leftovers in the fridge. Then Daryl hears him rummaging around in the cabinets. Getting himself more food than usual, huh, just to lord it over Daryl, the starving, powerless prisoner? Daryl grinds his teeth over the sound of his stomach rumbling as loud as an earthquake, and wonders if Rick’s trying to starve him out ‘til he talks.

Then a handful of something showers down on Daryl’s head.

“Puh – ” Daryl splutters. “ _What_ – ”

He snags one that bounces off his head like a nerfball and holds it up for inspection. Circular, hollowed, dry, light, bout as big as a bagel sitting in his tiny hand –

It’s... a Cheerio.

Daryl stares at it. Huh. Not starving him out, then.

He takes a bite, and it crunches loudly between his teeth as the taste explodes across his tongue. His eyes close in bliss.

Not Cheerios.

_Honey Nut_ Cheerios.

It feels like centuries since the last time he’s eaten anything resembling processed sugar. And damn, it’s fucking delicious.

He munches down the rest of them like a starving man at a feast.

-

Lunchtime rolls around. Daryl gets treated to a tiny piece of Rick’s chicken that’s prob’ly as big as his forearm. He doesn’t stop to measure it, though. He just tears into it, and the first meat he’s had in who knows how long tastes so good he might actually cry.

-

Daryl’s starting to think Rick’s got the right goddamn idea about this whole custody thing.

After all, he’s a pretty decent jailer. Gets him medical supplies, food, water... It’s like living in a fuckin’ hotel or something. Most comfortable living Daryl’s ever had, easy.

Unfortunately, it also means Rick’s good at all the other parts that come with the job. Like keeping Daryl under lock and key.

Rick’s smart about leaving Daryl by himself now, especially after his second unsuccessful escape attempt after lunch. Daryl wishes he hadn’t dropped his knife earlier. He’d have escaped hours ago, cut right through the plastic, but what’s done is done, so, whatever. Before Rick heads back upstairs to do whatever he does up there, he pokes some holes around the top of the cup, strings some twine through them, and ties it up on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

Daryl hangs there in his prison cup, swinging uselessly, and waits for Rick to come back. Not like he can do much else.

-

A light shower starts outside. Daryl can hear the pitter patter of raindrops, and can just see the kitchen widow above the sink start to fog up. He takes another tiny, chalky bite of the pill Rick gave him, and feels it blur the edges of his mind as the rain keeps falling.

He falls asleep listening to it, like every raindrop is a music note in a long, quiet symphony, and heals.

-

Dinner is frozen pizza.

Fuck. Yes.

-

Long after dinner’s over and the sun’s gone down, Rick is sipping a cold beer and looking out the kitchen window at the faraway lightning that’s thundering over the hills. He’s poured a little of his beer into the twist-off bottle cap and lowered it into Daryl’s cell, because he’s magnanimous like that. Daryl drinks it up, savoring the bitter, familiar taste rolling over his tongue, and wonders how long it’s been since his last beer. Half a year? Maybe more? He can’t remember.

When he downs the last drops in his bottle, Rick finally breaks the radio silence that’s been building for over nine hours.

“What’s your name?” he asks out of the blue.

Daryl blinks and looks up at him. What?

“Your name,” Rick repeats patiently.

“Oh. Uh, Daryl.” He shrugs self-consciously, a little what-can-you-do. “Daryl Dixon.”

“Daryl Dixon,” Rick echoes, like he’s committing it to his long-term memory. Daryl tries to hide how much his name rolling off Rick’s tongue makes his spine shiver. “My name’s Rick Grimes, but seems like you already knew that.”

Daryl concedes that with a nod.

Rick sets down his empty beer bottle on the table with a clink. “So. We gotta have a talk. Don’t want it happenin’ like last time, though. Let’s do this more... rational. Not an interrogation, or an argument, or anything. Let’s say it’s more of a discussion. That sound alright to you, Dixon?”

Daryl grunts like it doesn’t matter to him either way.

That seems to be enough for Rick, because he nods back, satisfied. “Good. Good.” He sits back into shadow, studying Daryl like he’s building a plan of attack, and his eyes glint in the darkened room from the low lamplight like dancing fireflies.

“Tell me something I couldn’t know,” he says at last. “Something I can check.”

Daryl knows this is the perfect place to start convincing Rick of the truth. He rubs the sweat off his palms on his pants and swallows down nerves. He can’t fuck this up.

“Got a brother, Merle. Been arrested couple times before. Can probably look him up on a database or somethin’.”

Concrete, verifiable, guaranteed info, but... Doesn’t really seem like enough, somehow. Rick certainly doesn’t look all that shock and awed. Maybe that’s because it’s too much like something Rick would come up with, being a cop and all. Daryl tries to come up with something else, something out of left field, something a city boy like Rick wouldn’t even dream of, something from the wild...

“And, and this ’s a goddamn fact. Best bet for digging up morel mushrooms, the ones that look like sponges, find a dead elm with the bark peelin’ off. There’ll be whole patches ‘round it. Could feed you for a couple days, easy.”

Now Rick cocks his head to the side, like he’s got his ears waterlogged and can’t decide if he misheard him or not.

Could be a good sign. He keeps going.

“Once I seen a deer jump an eight-foot fence, tryna get away. Whitetail. Almost 300 pounds, but the bastard cleared it with a couple inches to spare. Even with an arrow in its gut.” That’d been a day. He’d lost the deer and the arrow. Even the memory of it sort of pisses him off. “And, uh... the Tufted Titmouse, it’s birdcall is like – ” Daryl whistles three short, high bursts. “ – that.”

He looks up at Rick hopefully.

Rick just looks sort of flabbergasted.

Daryl’s brow creases. Should he keep going?

“Right, okay, I gotta check all that stuff out,” Rick says hastily, like he has no idea how the fuck he’s going to be able to find out what a Tufted Titmouse sounds like. “Later. I’ll check it out later. Why don’t we just.” He makes a vague gesture. “Move on, for now.”

“Okay.” Daryl has no problem with that. Looks like Rick’s logical mind is actually starting to believe he might be real, instead of just another hallucination. Progress.

“You wanna tell me how you know all that stuff ‘bout me? My name, the smiling man, all that?”

Daryl tries to look innocent and totally ignorant of anything resembling magic or hoodoo. Rick doesn’t fall for it for a second.

Daryl sighs. “Fine. I been living here in your kitchen for a couple months. Under the sink, over there.” He gestures over to his den. “Overheard your phone call with that Shane guy. Heard about you seein’ the smiling man, so. Figured I needed to know more. Followed you to work the other day in your belt, saw more ‘n I bargained for.”

Rick is frowning. “Came to work with... Wait, which day did you – ” Then he stills. “Did you – Jenner?”

Daryl nods. “Yeah,” he says heavily.

Rick rubs at his face. “Jesus.”

He stands up and stalks over to the fridge, muttering, “I need another goddamn beer.” He pops the top off and carefully fills it up for Daryl.

Once they’ve had a minute to drink and Rick’s had a minute to absorb everything, he starts again.

“So. Last night.”

Daryl raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t pick up the slack by answering the unspoken question.

“Come on, I know you know _something,_ ” Rick wheedles.

Daryl huffs. “You gonna believe me this time?”

Rick hesitates, but then he promises, “I’ll try.”

Daryl doesn’t know why, but a promise from Rick Grimes is something he feels like he can take to the bank. Or maybe he’s just a gooey sap for those big blue doe eyes, who the hell knows.

“A’right. Fire away.”

Rick frowns and drums his fingers restlessly against the tabletop. Finally, he asks, “How’d you know that’d happen?”

Daryl looks up at him.

“How’d you know he’d be out there in the yard,” Rick amends. “Said earlier that he was probably out there, waitin’ for me. How’d you guess?”

Daryl shrugs. “Figured he would be, after last night.”

Rick narrows his eyes. “Really.”

Daryl narrows his eyes right back. “ _Really_.”

Rick runs a hand through his hair. He looks tired. “Okay. Fine. So... _assuming_ you’re real _and_ telling the truth to the best of your ability... you saw him last night?”

“Yeah.”

“How?”

Daryl gestures over at the kitchen window. “Through there.”

“No, I meant – ” Rick shakes his head and pinches his nose. “Okay. So you can get up on the counter. Somehow. All right. I meant... How can you see him, too? Nobody else can.”

Daryl shrugs uncomfortably. “Always had good eyes. ‘Specially when it comes to lookin’ out for danger. Ain’t ever seen nothing like that before, though. You know.” He wiggles his fingers. “That weird shit.”

Rick chuckles brokenly. “I do know.”

“Yeah, and this freak, he...” Daryl runs a hand over his shoulder, where the wound used to be. “Well, he tried to off me. Shrunk me, tried catchin’ me, and then sent a fuckin’ mountain lion after my sorry ass to finish me off when he couldn’t use me.”

“ _Use_ you?” Rick echoes.

“Wanted my eyes, I think. Kept saying he’d cut ‘em out, that they were perfect for his, uh, masterpiece, or something.” Daryl nearly shivers at the memory. The look in the smiling man’s eyes when he’d taken his sharp knife like it was a medical instrument and gone for his eyes, only to hit his shoulder – ugh. Daryl shoves that out of his mind.

“He – your _eyes_?” All of a sudden, Rick’s voice has turned sharp, incisive. Like Daryl’s under the spotlight in the interrogation room. “You said, he wanted your _eyes_?”

Daryl blinks rapidly, unsure how they got here all of a sudden. Rick had finally calmed down, but now he’s all set to blow.

“Yeah?” Daryl says uncertainly. “Went after ‘em with his knife, barely made it out alive. Got lucky.” He shows Rick his scarred shoulder where it’d hit instead.

Rick peers down at the scar. His jaw tightens. “Looks deep.”

“Yeah, had worse,” Daryl dismisses. “Healed over pretty fast, too.”

“Hmm.”

Daryl narrows his eyes. “Why you so _interested_ in it bein’ after my baby blues, huh?”

Rick hesitates for a second, and Daryl can practically see the snotty ‘classified’ running through his mind before he deliberately pushes it aside. “Case,” he admits. “Male murdered in a basement, both eyes missing. Previous signs of paranoia, little to no evidence of anyone else in the room, locked doors and windows. Only happened three days ago, now.”

Daryl chews on that. It’s the basement case Harrison’d wanted help with at the station.

“Sounds like the smiling man to me,” Daryl offers. “Must’ve finally gotten the eyes for his, uh. Whatever project he’s working on.”

“Hmm, okay, a project.” Rick thinks out loud with a crease between his eyebrows. “So whatever he is, whatever he’s working on, he’s selectively collecting body parts to do it. Profile must be similar to a trophy serial killer. So we can be fairly sure that he’s not disposing of them, but memorializing them. He’s choosing each victim’s body parts for very specific reasons, probably that have to do with his idea of perfection. Prizes he’s won. And...”

“Putting them together?” Daryl offers casually. “Like Frankenstein.”

Rick peers down at him. “Yeah, like Frankenstein,” he says. “And I’m assuming you knew that it’s not the first time that _that’s_ been brought up in the past couple days about these cases.”

Daryl shrugs. He’s already told Rick he followed him to work.

“Right. So, to sum up, right now, I’ve got a magical serial killer stalking me outside my house. Wanting to cut me apart and use my body parts for his... monster.”

Daryl nods. “Far as I can figure, yeah.”

Rick stares at him. “You know how crazy this sounds? Do you have _any_ idea – Daryl, this is never gonna get any traction with the department.”

“Well, yeah,” Daryl says, like it’s a no-brainer. Which. It kind of is. “They’re never gonna get with the program. They’re not the lucky sons of bitches who went and got cursed. We are.”

Rick looks like he’s running that word over and over again in his mind. _Cursed. Cursed... Cursed. I’m... cursed._ Daryl can tell, because he’s done the same goddamn thing a thousand times.

He waits for that to sink in. He can see it on Rick’s face, the way his parameters are shifting under the surface. The way he’s systematically calculating all their resources, mapping out courses of action, lining up pros and cons.

Then everything sort of... clicks together, and Rick’s face smoothes out into something dark and purposeful. Focused.

“So, what do we do?” Rick asks.

Daryl thinks about it.

Turns out, there’s only one answer.

“Hunt it. Before it hunts us.”

-

Rick walks through the front door of the police station the next morning in full uniform, and this time Daryl’s sitting pretty in Rick’s left breast pocket. It’s miles more comfortable than the pouch he was in before, and he can see everything and everyone. He peeks out the hollowed clasp as Martinez nods at them.

“Morning, Grimes,” he says.

“Morning, Martinez,” Rick rumbles. Whoo, boy. From up here in Rick’s shirt pocket, every syllable shakes through Daryl like a goddamn earthquake.

Martinez frowns. “You s’posed to be back here so soon, bro? Thought you were takin’ off a couple days.”

“I was,” Rick agrees. “I mean, I still am. Just wanted to check in, report to Morgan, talk with Harrison. That kind of thing.”

Martinez shrugs, like Rick is some kind of alien for wanting to come to work when he doesn’t have to, but he’s already accepted it about him a long time ago. “Okay, but you should know, _hermano_ , he’s so pissed he breathing fire. Getting’ shit from the mayor and all them other schmoozing fuckers since yesterday.”

Rick suppresses a sigh that Daryl can actually feel puff up behind him. “I figured.”

Rick steps into Morgan’s office, and shuts the door behind them. Morgan is standing behind his desk and looking out his window through the shades, and his back is as stiff and unyielding as a redwood.

“Sheriff.”

“Deputy.”

Daryl shifts in Rick’s pocket uneasily. They both sound pretty tense and clipped. Doesn’t look so good for their chances.

Morgan turns around, and his eyes are icy. “Thought you were supposed to be off work, Officer. I talked to Doctor Greene, or should I say he talked to me.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a free country, sir, and I’m not here to take up a shift. I’m here to finish up some loose ends before I go on vacation.”

“Which ends?” Morgan asks suspiciously.

“Progress reports, profiles, theories I got on all my currents. Gotta talk to Harrison, too. She wanted some help, and I’m transferring most of my caseload to her. Seemed like the right thing to do, give her some pointers on what I got goin’ on.”

Morgan’s eyes narrow. “And after I let you fly by today, you’ll stay out of the precinct for good ‘til you’re cleared by Greene. Cold turkey. Right?”

“Right,” Rick agrees. “Just today. I got a lot of cases, sir. It wouldn’t be fair to push all that work on to the team with no notice.”

“Hmmm.” Morgan considers him with a glare that could topple civilizations. “Done. If I see a goddamn _molecule_ of you in this precinct starting tomorrow, I will suspend your ass for so long you’ll forget how to recite your fucking Miranda rights.”

“10-4.” Rick tips his hat and trucks it on out of there.

Thank fuck, Daryl can finally breathe normally again.

-

The next stop is Rick’s desk, which has a fuckton of paperwork piled on it. Damn, Daryl thought he’d been overplaying the paperwork angle for Morgan, but here it all is. The Mount Kilimanjaro of police department red tape.

Rick starts going through each sheet one by one. Fuck, this is gonna take longer than Daryl thought it would.

-

They’re in the copy room by the laser printer when Rick mutters down to his chest, “Sorry, job’s always slow-moving. Gonna get us all the evidence we need to look over, bring it home. Then we can talk to Harrison and get out of here and over to Jenner’s place for scoping.”

“Okay,” Daryl whispers back. Nice to know. He was about to slip into a coma, he was so bored.

When he’s done, Rick stuffs all his copied files into an empty binder, then puts the originals back into their manila folders and stacks them up neatly. He carries it all back to his desk and organizes everything into particular piles in the bins there.

“Andrea?” Rick calls over to the other side of the room.

Harrison doesn’t respond.

Rick grabs his radio instead. “Harrison,” he says firmly. “This is Grimes. You copy?”

Daryl hears Rick’s voice echo across the station from another walkie. Rick must, too, because he walks over to her desk. “Andrea?”

She’s sitting there in her chair, but her forehead is smack dab in the middle of her inbox. She’s obviously been fast asleep up until now, going from the intense hatred shooting up at Rick through her glare, the dark circles under her bloodshot eyes, and the tornado of hair on her head.

“Must’ve been here all night, working on them cases,” Rick says softly. “Sorry, I’ll just come back later.”

She grunts. “S’fine. What.”

Rick shuffles through a manila folder. “Looked at your basement case.” He pulls out a photograph clipped to some halfway filled out forms and tosses it on her desk, right next to her head. “Had a question or two for you, ‘bout this picture.”

Harrison’s head snaps up, and her tired eyes light up with sudden interest. Daryl looks down at it with her – it’s a crime scene photo, where the victim’s whole body is visible in the shot. There’s chalk outline drawn around him, and over ten yellow evidence markers scattered around him on the floor. There’s also a pool of dark blood soaking into the floor around his head, and it’s spilling out from the deep cavernous sockets where his eyes used to be.

Daryl stares at the poor fucker’s face. It’s like his eyes are stuck on that spot, and he can’t look away. He’s all too aware that this would’ve been him, out in the forest, if he hadn’t gotten lucky and somehow gotten away in time. It’s fucking surreal.

“What’s the question?” Harrison asks.

Rick taps his index finger on something dark and blurry in the foreground. “You see this?”

She leans in closer. “Yeah, uh.” She frowns. “I didn’t think it was connected, I thought it was something already in the basement.”

“What is it?”

Harrison shrugs. “Some broken camera. Lens was cracked and dusty, the reel was full of overexposed film... Had one of the guys check it out, but they said it’d probably been sitting there unused for over five years, so it couldn’t have gotten a snapshot of our guy. Why?”

Rick goes through his manila folder again and throws down another photo. “Because. There was something kind of like it in the other case.”

Daryl peers down at the new photograph. This one’s from Jenner’s crime scene, in the storage room. Jenner’s barely visible, and his feet are barely in the frame in the corner of the picture. The focus of the shot is on the shelves stocked full of liquor, most of them still packed in large wooden crates. Up high on the ceiling, right above these shelves, is a security camera peeking out of the shoddy beamed woodwork.

“Another camera,” Harrison breathes. “What did the tapes show?”

“Nothing,” Rick says. “Overexposed, just like your film camera. All the footage was just – white static.”

“Hmmm.”

“Yeah, I thought so too. But even more interesting than that?” Rick leans in, and his voice goes quiet. “Andrea, this security footage was _digital_.”

Harrison blinks. “What?”

“I went through the specs, downloaded the footage from its local drive. There was no film in that camera. It was taped live on miniDV and automatically transferred to digital files on the server. But the entire image is whited out with static, just like your film camera, before there was any time for it to overdevelop. Just. Wiped. Right after Jenner bursts inside.”

Harrison looks like she’s just been hit by a truck. “Rick, what the. What does that even _mean_ , what are we – who are we – what the hell kind of _equipment_ , who the hell are we even _chasing_?”

“I have my theories.”

“But no proof,” Harrison fills in with a sigh. “Yeah, been there. So,” her eyes dart around the station behind him, and her voice is barely even audible now. “What do you need?”

Rick hesitates.

“Rick. You’ve got a hunch, but you’ve been benched. You need help from inside the station to track this son of a bitch down. So tell me. _What do you need_?”

Rick takes a deep breath, one that carries Daryl up a few inches like the crest of a wave carries a buoy.

“Access.”

Officer Harrison nods, and there’s a steely glint in her eye. “You got it.”

-

Twenty minutes later, Rick and Daryl walk into the apartment of the late Edwin Jenner. It’s a floor up above the liquor store, and it’s small and shabby with some of the ugliest wallpaper Daryl’s ever seen. It’s a gross shade of orange, and has peelings and stains all over it. Daryl might even be seeing some mold growing through some of the rips and tears out of the wall.

The wallpaper’s so disgusting, it takes Daryl almost a minute to notice all the papers and strings pinned up on the wall. It’s like, straight out of one of them shows where detectives make a web of suspects and evidence on corkboard. Except with much less evidence, and way more badly-drawn sketches than photos.

“Daryl, you seein’ this?” Rick asks.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just don’t know what the hell to make of it yet.”

Rick snorts. “Mhm.”

Daryl scans the strings of the web, looking for something, anything, resembling logic. He can’t really pick anything out, though. Looks like Jenner really was nuts.

“Looks like Jenner really was on to something,” Rick comments.

Daryl wrinkles his nose. “Seriously?” He looks up at Rick through the open flap of the pocket, and whatever Rick sees on his face makes him chuckle. “You’re fucking with me. Dude’s a space case.”

Rick shakes his head. “I know what it looks like, but I’ve done this kind of thing before. He’s paranoid and probably too smart for his own good. He made it look like this on purpose; there’s a pattern, if you know how to look for it.”

Daryl takes a closer look.

Rick is pointing at a string connecting a scribble and a blurry outside photograph. Daryl thinks the picture might be from a nearby forest, from the thick grass and the fallen pinecones. The scribble looks like – well, Daryl doesn’t know what the fuck Jenner was on when he drew it. There’s also a plastic bag pinned to it with a thumbtack, and inside is a used AA battery.

Daryl raises an eyebrow and looks back up at Rick. “Wow,” he says blankly. “Okay. You wanna explain this, Einstein?”

Rick grins down at him. “See this battery? It’s attached to this sketch of... uh... squiggly lines.” He points to the chicken scratch on an index card, two strings over. “And this? This says HSO4– in the corner here.”

“Code?” guesses Daryl.

“No, high school chemistry,” Rick says. “Hydrogen sulfate, actually. You know what that’s used for?”

Daryl shakes his head and tries for a blank face, trying to disguise his confusion and the fact that he never went to high school.

“Film development,” Rick says with an air of satisfaction. “Exposing photographs. Or, in this case, overexposing them.”

“Like the camera, and the security footage,” Daryl says thoughtfully.

“Exactly.”

“Is the battery – ?”

“No, batteries are usually made with hydrogen sulfide, not sulfate. Different.”

Daryl frowns. So the battery probably doesn’t have anything to do with the squiggles and HSO4– index card. “Then what does the battery mean?”

“My guess?” Rick ticks his head to the side. “It means whatever the smiling man is, he probably runs on hydrogen sulfate. Or maybe he emits it, not sure. I don’t think Jenner was sure, either.”

“Huh. Like, so, it’s part of his magic?” Daryl asks. “So when he showed up at the crime scenes, his aura automatically wiped out all the cameras. I guess that makes sense. Why’s the squiggle drawing connected to the forest floor picture over there, though?”

Rick hums. “Maybe Jenner saw the smiling man there, or maybe he found traces of sulfate. Either way, I think it’s the place he tracked it and found something out.”

“Tracked, huh,” Daryl says. Finally, something he knows about. All this fancy chemistry and decoding talk is starting to get a little overwhelming. “Good. We find out what kind of footprints Jenner was following, I can get us there, easy.”

“Before that, though,” Rick says speculatively, fingering his silver dime bracelet. “Why don’t we make another stop.”

Daryl shrugs. “Sure.”

-

The other stop turns out to be an old stone building sitting on a corner in the run-down block of downtown. There are enormous limestone pillars in the front, fluted and Doric, that almost make it look like some sort of ancient Greek temple. It looks out of place here, scrunched between a rotting brick three-story and a 7-Eleven in this small countryside town.

Daryl looks up to the top. There, carved deep into the limestone, is the engraving: _Forum ad Civitatem._ He wonders what the hell they’re doing here.

Rick steps through the massive wooden double doors and into the lobby. His boots click on the smooth marble floors with every step, and Daryl can hear it echo in the vast emptiness of the atrium. He looks up towards the ceiling, and catches glimpses of peeling paintings, flying buttresses, and large, ornate windows.

Then Rick turns down a hallway full of oak office doors and dark red carpet, and Daryl sees a small statue of a blind woman holding scales sitting on an outcropping cut into the wall.

Rick raps on one of the grand oaken doors with his bony knuckles.

“It’s open,” a voice calls.

Rick turns the doorknob and steps inside. “Sasha,” he says politely.

“Rick,” a stunning black woman replies. She’s sitting behind an enormous desk and wearing a smart, sharp blazer, and she doesn’t look up until she’s done writing a few more lines of text on her computer. “You need something?”

“I referred a gentleman over here recently, a Mister Bob Stookey? I was wonderin’ if I could talk with him a minute, see how he’s settlin’ in.”

“He only came in yesterday, so I don’t know how much ‘settling’ you’re expecting, but it shouldn’t be much,” Sasha says matter-of-factly. “But sure, Stookey’s moved into the shelter next door. Said he had a mind for cooking, so I told him to talk to Tyreese for a spot at the diner, but we’ll see.”

“Is he there now?” Rick asks.

Sasha shrugs. “Could be. Likes to go out for walks a lot, strolling around the city. Hard to pin down where he is most of the time. Had a hell of a time catching him long enough to move him into the shelter. Kept stepping out for ‘fresh air,’” she says scornfully.

“So I’ll just have to wing it and hope he’s nearby?”

Sasha nods with a sour look on her face. “Check his room first, though. He’s in 312.”

Rick thanks her, and makes his way back outside onto the shabby sidewalk.

“Who was she?” Daryl asks.

“Lawyer. Best one in town. Also basically runs the homeless shelter’s administrative side. Running for District Attorney next year, or so I hear.”

Daryl hums. Everyone in this town seems so complicated and mixed up in each other’s business. It’s a little difficult to wrap his brain around it – all the names and faces and jobs have started overlapping each other. He’s never had to know so many people all at the same time before.

The shelter turns out to be the brick three story that’s next door to the courthouse, which Daryl didn’t expect. For some reason, he was thinking of a beaten up house or refurbished factory, not this old city building.

Rick goes in the front door into the small lobby and says hello to the girl working behind the counter. Daryl can tell this place used to be a hotel, from the intricately carved front desk and the bellboy carts lined up against the hall by the elevators. It’s a little dank and patchy, but it’s clear it used to be one of those fancy hotels with lush red carpets, crystal chandeliers, and painted wallpaper. Course, now all the carpets are frayed, the chandeliers are dirty, and the wallpaper is cracking, but he can still see a shadow of how it used to be.

Rick passes the elevators and goes up the stairwell instead. It’s a grand old staircase, with an elegant brass banister and white marble steps, and Daryl’s never seen anything like it outside the movies. He loves the way the sun hits the marble through the wide windows, how it looks like it’s glowing from the inside. And the way the brass glints – it’s almost like he’s looking at a painting instead of a stairwell.

They reach the third floor, and Rick raps on door 312.

“Hello, Mister Stookey? This is Officer Rick Grimes.”

The door swings open.

“Officer Grimes!” an energetic Bob Stookey says. “Come in, come in – I see that this town takes care of its people pretty well, huh?”

“They do,” Rick agrees, stepping past the threshold. “You’ll fit right in.”

Bob smiles. “Seems that way, so far. So! What can I do you for, officer?”

Rick hesitates, and then slides the hemp bracelet off his wrist. “I, uh. Wanted to give this back to you ‘fore I forgot.”

Bob Stookey’s face falls into something more serious as his eyes catch on the dirty, ashy faces of his two silver coins. He gingerly takes it from Rick’s hand, careful not to touch the ash, and studies it up close.

“Sorry, I couldn’t figure how to clean that black stuff,” Rick apologizes. “Wouldn’t come off.”

“No, it wouldn’t, would it,” Bob mutters, almost to himself. “Needs... hmm...”

Bob wanders off deeper into his suite, and Rick steps after him into the kitchen. Bob is mixing together some stuff into a small bowl. Things like salt, powdered roots, clear water, and bits of leaves. Things Daryl knows in his bones soon as lookin’ at ‘em that hold deep, old magic. Bob mixes it together until it blooms into a light, smooth blue, and dips each of the silver coins into it.

When the coins resurface, they’re as bright and clean as the day they were made.

Then Bob turns towards them with his hands on his hips and an eerily knowing look in his eyes.

“Why don’t we sit down,” Bob says kindly. “All three of us. Looks like we have important things to talk about.”

“Yeah,” Rick says weakly. “Sure.”

-

Some odd cups of tea later, Bob is up to date on everything Rick and Daryl know about the smiling man, and Daryl is full up to the brim with chamomile he’s been drinking from a spoon. He feels warm and a touch overfull, and he lies back on the tea cozy like it’s a futon and listens to Rick awkwardly fumble over thank-you’s and apologies like it’s background music.

Bob Stookey waves him off with a smile. “Don’t need to thank me, Rick. Or apologize. I’m just real glad my dimes did their jobs.”

Then he sets his teacup down into his saucer.

“Now, you two got a big problem on your hands. Real big. Curses, well. Curses are dark, evil things. S’why it’s called black magic; confuses you, blinds you, hounds you from the shadows. Hangs over your head like a guillotine. Never know when it’s gonna decide to hit.” He shakes his head. “Like I said, real big problem.”

“But there’s gotta be a way, right?” Rick asks urgently. “You can fix it?”

Bob Stookey pauses. It stretches for a while, long enough to dig into everybody real deep and poke at the soft stuff under there.

“Nah, Rick, he can’t.” Daryl finally says quietly. “We gotta do it ourselves. Ain’t that right.”

“That’s right,” Bob Stookey agrees. “It’d be easier on y’all if I could, but. No. Ain’t no curse alive that I know of that can be broken by someone else. Gotta be you two, or it ain’t gonna stick. Could come right on back, soon as I’m gone.”

Rick’s face falls.

“But,” Bob continues, and his eyes are twinkling. “Just because I can’t do it myself, that don’t mean I can’t give you some trade secrets.”

Daryl grins. “Like summa that goop you got there?”

Bob snorts. “You mean what cleaned off the dimes?”

“Yeah, that.”

“It’ll help,” Bob allows. “Quick fix, though. It don’t break curses, it just gets that juju gone for a little while. But what I’m talkin’ ‘bout isn’t a quick fix, it’s forever. For both of you.”

“What is it?” Rick sit forward eagerly. “What do we need to do?”

Bob Stookey blows out a sigh through his nose. “Well, that’s the thing, I can’t just outright _tell_ you,” he explains with a weary, put-upon expression that’s obviously seen miles of use. “There’s no one answer. All of ‘em are different.” He sits back in his chair and folds his hands together, staring up at the ceiling. “Let me think...”

Then he closes his eyes and points to Daryl. “Mirrors. That’s what I’d do. Mirrors. Lots of ‘em. Follow the reflection. Bounce it back at him.”

Daryl doesn’t know how to do that, but okay. He hopes he can figure it out when it comes up.

“And you.” Bob points to Rick. “You’ll smell it long before you see it. Fire. Dry wood. Oil mixed with a little somethin’ I’mma make you. Capisce?”

Rick nods and sits back with an impressed look on his face. “Mirrors and matches. No complex, vague riddles for us to solve?” he asks. “I thought that was how this was supposed to work.”

Bob Stookey laughs. “Fresh out. Those’re usually from greenies that don’t know their rock salt from their sugar.”

“Usually? There’s other ones?”

“Other ones that pull that trick are older, meaner, and want to screw with people.” Bob shakes his head with a snort. “Riddles and tricks aren’t really my style, so. That’s lookin’ real good for you two right now, huh?”

“Sure is,” Rick agrees.

Sure as _hell_ is. Daryl’s known some tricksters and greenies in his time, and cruelty and ignorance will do you in every time. If they hadn’t met Bob Stookey, and if he’d never met Ole Missy, well. He doesn’t wanna think ‘bout how many pieces they’d both be in by now.

-

The drive home is quiet. They try to talk, but they both keep losing track of the conversation by sinking back into their own heads. Daryl can’t even appreciate the view of the countryside zipping by through the windshield he has from Rick’s pocket; his mind is too stuck on mirrors.

-

Rick makes sure to put the Ziploc bag full of mysterious Stookey goop into the fridge right when they get back. When Daryl asks him about it, Rick shrugs.

“Don’t want it to spoil before we get to use it properly.”

Daryl shakes his head. “It ain’t coleslaw, Rick. Ain’t gonna go bad on us.”

“You don’t know that,” Rick says indignantly. “It could! Probably. Besides, I don’t want it stinkin’ up the place.”

Daryl tries to stifle his smile. “Whatever. What else we got to eat?”

“For dinner? I got a few things.” He walks over to the cupboard and opens the doors. Daryl looks on from Rick’s shirt pocket, and watches as he presents him with a variety of different microwavable soups, cereals, protein bars, and dried fruit.

“Mmm,” Daryl says noncommittally, which means he’d rather die than eat dry food again after all these weeks of living like a goddamn woodland creature.

Rick seems to pick up on that. Going by how he snorts and moves on to the fridge.

Daryl perks up. He’s never seen the inside of the fridge before. There’s ripe fruits, meats, vegetables, bottles of beer, milk, and –

Daryl’s eyes widen.

“Holy shit,” he says.

There, right on the second shelf, is –

His mouth begins to water.

“Spaghetti,” he breathes reverently.

Rick bursts out laughing. “Well! Guess I know what we’re having fer dinner,” he says through a chuckle or five.

Daryl might cry.

-

He does. Cry, that is. Just a lil bit. He hides it in the tuck of his elbow as he spins another noodle around a toothpick.

Spaghetti is just too damn good for this fucked up world.

-

Later, they’re both sitting on the couch in the living room, stuffed and watching TV. Daryl jumps on the buttons on the remote to change channels and volume and all that crap. It’s nice, bein’ able to choose what to watch. Usually Merle’d always do it. It’s a weird kind of high, picking the channel.

He settles on a nice Planet Earth special about tide pools, with all their mollusks and seaweed and hermit crabs.

“Didn’t figure you for a Planet Earth kinda guy,” Rick comments over a smooth, deep voice telling them all about the shallows on the West Coast.

Daryl shrugs. “Ain’t really a TV guy. These couple months, they been the longest I stayed in a house.”

“Huh.” Rick looks at him, pensive.

Daryl keeps his eyes on the screen, where a hermit crab is scuttling along the beachside looking for a new shell to hide under. He watches the little red guy go. He’s speedy as a racecar on the Indy 500, especially with that terrifying goddamn seagull flapping after him.

He takes another tiny sip of beer from the bottle cap, and tries to refocus on the shoals of Malibu beach instead of the warm look in Rick’s eyes and the red blush creeping up on the back of Daryl’s traitor neck.

“So,” Daryl tries to change the subject.

“So?”

Daryl looks over and raises an eyebrow. “ _So_ ,” he repeats archly.

“So, what?” Rick says with a smirk.

He set that up, the bastard.

Daryl rolls his eyes. “Yer a goddamn menace.”

Rick’s full-out grinning now. “You bet your ass I am. Biggest menace this side of the Mississippi.”

Daryl snorts. “’Sides that jackass haunting your ass.”

“Yeah, really crampin’ my style, havin’ competition.” Rick’s joking mood dims as they sit and think about the world outside this safehouse, where the smiling man could be hiding anywhere in plain sight.

“What’re we gonna do next?” Rick asks quietly.

Daryl thinks about it, and the television he was so interested in before could be blank static right now for all he knows. “We got the know-how, we got the juice, we got the advantage...”

He finishes off his beer from the bottle cap.

“Only one thing left to do,” he says heavily.

-

Armed with a mirror, gasoline, two lighters, and a tub of oil mixed with magic goop, Rick and Daryl head out into the woods in the early morning.

They take the car as deep in as they can on the old, overgrown dirt roads, but when those dissolve into wild ferns and tree trunks, they have to continue on foot. Well, Rick has to continue on foot. Daryl’s sitting pretty cozy in Rick’s breast pocket with a death grip on their mirror.

“You sure it’s this way?” Rick asks as he swats some overhanging foliage out of his face. “It’s been a half hour already.”

“I’m sure,” Daryl insists. Again. He’s less sure than what his confident voice shows Rick, but he’s still pretty damn sure. “Go through them trees, there. The ones with the ivy hangin’ between ‘em.”

“We don’t even know if he’ll be there – don’t even know if you’re doin’ this right.”

Daryl shrugs. “It’s our best shot. And, the sooner we hit, the better shot we got.”

“Yeah, even then, it don’t seem like our chances of hittin’ the mark are all that high.” Rick saves himself a nasty trip over a tree root, and stumbles through some loose undergrowth that snags at his pants. “Dammit,” he mutters.

“Go ‘round this patch and keep goin’ straight,” Daryl directs absently. “An’ I’ll have you know, I ain’t missed a shot since I was a teenager.”

“I know, I. I just – I guess I’m just nervous.”

“Yeah. S’okay.”

Rick huffs out a sigh. “I trust you, Daryl, but Jesus Christ. What the hell are we doin’, going out lookin’ for trouble? More I walk, more I wish I was back home.” He shakes his head. “I just – somethin’ in the back of my mind keeps screaming at me, tellin’ me to get gone.”

“Yeah. I got that too.” Daryl looks down into the mirror he’s using to guide their way. “But Bob Stookey told me t’ follow the reflection, so that’s what I’m gonna do.”

He follows the glint of the sun off the mirror again, the way it sharpens around his reflection and bounces off into the woods in a thin gold strand too tiny for someone as big as Rick to see. It’s been pointing to the same place no matter where they’ve been moving, and it’s not like normal sunlight. Thicker, but near invisible as it stretches out into the distance, glinting ever so often down the line like some kind of thread.

He’s got a feeling that he knows what’s waiting for them on the other end of the line, and he’s not really looking forward to it, but he dutifully feeds Rick directions anyway. He knows to turn into the skid when the wheels start to spin; it’s why he’s still alive.

Then Rick steps through a small glen, and they come up on a place Daryl recognizes.

It’s where he hid in a log covered in mud and dirt, waiting for a mountain lion to get bored of the chase. It’s been months since he’s been here, but he can still see the faint tracks where he cut through the mud and underbrush. They’d been deep and sharp from his sheer desperation, but now they’re shallow, faded like the edges of an old photograph.

“We must be gettin’ close, then,” Rick remarks. “How far d’you reckon you ran after you got shrunk?”

“Mile, maybe two. Then from here to yer place, ‘nuther couple miles.” It’d felt like more than that, like he’d run a marathon through these woods, but he _knows_ distance. Even with a stride of an inch and a half, he just _knows_.

“Which way?”

Daryl silently points west, the same way that he came so many months ago, the same direction the mirror’s thread is taking through the trees. It’s still dark over that way; he can catch glimpses of stars in between overhanging branches, the deep black of space fading into purples and blues from the oncoming sunrise.

Well, one good thing is certain, at least – when they stumble across him, the smiling man won’t have the night cloaking him in his full power. Daryl hopes it’s enough.

-

Turns out, the farther they go into the forest, stumbling past tree roots and brambles, the thicker the thread gets. Brighter, too. Enough so that Rick starts seeing it, too.

There’s also dried blood spatters and random dismembered body parts strewn around their path, popping up more and more the closer they get. A bloody fingernail impaled in a tree trunk, ripped out hair with bits of scalp still attached caught in bushes.

One thing’s for sure. They’re getting to the end of the line.

“These look like remnants of the ones that broke out and made a run for it,” Rick remarks quietly. He’s turned towards a patch of grass with ten rivets dragged through it, from someone’s hands desperately clawing at the ground.

“Was almost me,” Daryl whispers, and his eyes are caught on the paw prints dug into the earth right next to the grass. Mountain lion prints. He feels far away, all of a sudden, like he’s having an out-of-body experience. Like he’s frozen in a memory he doesn’t have, of being chased, of being bitten, of being dragged, of being chopped and of being repurposed and eaten –

“Hey!” Rick’s jaw sets as he looks down at Daryl, and makes sure to catch his eyes. “You know what they say about almost.”

Daryl takes a shaky breath and nods. Rick’s blue eyes are sharp and clear, and something about them traps Daryl’s gaze, has him sinking into them like a cobra sinking into a snake charmer’s song. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Only counts in horseshoes.”

Rick nods firmly. He breaks into a small smile that crinkles around his eyes in the most beautiful way. The corners of Daryl’s lips tick upwards automatically in response, and he’s pretty sure if Merle saw him right now he’d bust a gut laughing at the starry, smitten look in his eyes and calling him Darylina.

“Right,” Rick says, and his voice is soft and warm in a way that makes something deep in Daryl’s soul shudder. “Only counts in horseshoes.”

Then Rick starts walking again, following the bright gold glow of the thread, looking ahead for the path like he hadn’t just sealed the deal and made Daryl hopelessly, eternally, irrevocably, desperately, _ferociously_ in love with him.

Daryl looks away, flustered, before his eyes can get stuck staring.

-

Dawn chases away the last patches of night. The whole sky is bright, the sun is out, and birds have begun chirping and fluttering around in the treetops. The light helps Rick quit hesitating over whether things he’s stepping on are flora or rotting pieces of people, so he picks up the pace with his increasingly confident strides and his long, long legs.

They’ve started coming across larger sections of bodies, out here – instead of lone fingers or eyeballs, it’s a hacked off leg, or the better part of a torso. There are more and more of them every time they turn. By this point, there are more bodies in this part of the woods per square foot than there are trees.

Rick slips an inch or two forward in a puddle of blood so old and caked together it’s turned brown and black, camouflaged among the dirt. Daryl’s body slams up against Rick’s chest with a small, pained sound forced out of his lungs from the unexpected impact.

“Shit,” he wheezes. His broken ribs are not doing him any favors right now. He tries to scrub the stars out of his eyes with the heel of his hand, and hopes he doesn’t pass out from this.

“Sorry, didn’t see that. You okay?” Rick asks, concerned.

“Fine,” Daryl forces out, trying to make his voice sound normal, sound like he’s just your regular Joe Schmoe, breathing normally, with absolutely zero broken ribs. “’M fine.”

Rick hums, unconvinced, but at least he doesn’t press it. Just starts up the trail again.

Daryl closes his eyes in relief. Thank fuck.

See, Daryl knows that if he told Rick just how broken his body is, he’d slam on the brakes. He knows Rick would prioritize Daryl’s life over killing the goddamn smiling man, and that just can’t happen.

No, because Daryl knows this has to get done soon. Today. Right now.

They’ll never have a better chance, and it doesn’t matter how broken Daryl is right now, or how much pain he feels – he’s charging into this, resolved to throw himself into the jaws of death, all to make sure the smiling man never spills a single drop on Rick Grimes’ blood. He’ll be damned if he lets anything sideline him now.

-

The trees are starting to getting thicker, and the overhanging branches tangle together over their heads like knotted spider webs. The stench of corpses hangs in the air, so thick it’s suffocating, and the bodies around here are hanging from branches like trapped flies, piled up in shallowly dug ditches. Most of them are only missing one or two parts. An ear here, a foot there.

Rick’s hand flies up to cover his nose and mouth. Daryl doesn’t blame him. Hell, even Daryl’s eyes are watering from that god-awful smell, and he’s got a stronger stomach than most.

A dark, dilapidated shack comes into view, and heaps of human remains are stacked up against the side of it like firewood. Daryl feels the stare of dozens of empty eyes boring into him as they approach.

Rick steps up to the corner of the house and draws his Colt Python from his holster. He peers around, casing the joint, before he slinks all the way around it.

So far, no sign of the smiling man. Daryl double-checks the thread coming from the mirror, and yeah, as they circle around, the thread unerringly points to the inside of the shack.

He’s – it’s – gotta be in there.

Daryl and Rick meet eyes, and they nod at each other. The uncertainty in Rick’s eyes dissipates, and something in his demeanor hardens into steel.

Then Rick takes a deep breath, and steps up onto the rickety porch. He’s creeping up silently towards the front door when, out of nowhere –

_Shunk_!

A grimy, bony hand bursts through the mossy, rotted boards and grabs Rick’s ankle like a vise. Rick yells, kicking at it ineffectually, and is one second away from toppling over when another hand grabs his other leg. He’s stuck in place, now, and more and more hands keep coming out of the woodwork to anchor him there.

“Rick!” Daryl cries out, climbing out of the pocket and scrambling down the seams of his pant legs to stab at the dead men’s hands with his knife. Doesn’t do nearly enough, and Daryl grinds his teeth. If he just wasn’t so fucking _tiny_ –

Then the front door creaks open in front of them, like a slow, high-pitched cackle of a hyena, and Rick’s struggling body stiffens with shock.

Daryl turns, a sense of foreboding filling his mind, and yeah.

There, in the doorway, is _him_ , creeping forward, floating, _smiling_.

“Your brain,” it says in a hoarse, reedy voice, staring into Rick’s head. “Yes, your _brain_ – it’s perfect, just what we need, yes, perfect, _perfect_ , yes, _yes_ – ”

Then it raises its knife, and Daryl’s tiny body is frozen with fear. The smiling man is laughing, laughing, laughing, and fuck if it’s not the most terrifying thing he’s ever heard.

But.

If there’s one thing Daryl’s not afraid of anymore, it’s dying. There’re worse things, he knows, much worse things, and letting Rick Grimes get torn apart by this fucker without a knockdown drag out fight to the death is one of them.

His mind made up, his grip tightening on his knife, his eyes burning with fire, his whole body singing with danger, Daryl Dixon hurls himself at the smiling man with a roaring battle cry.


	4. Styx

The first time Daryl ever thought he was gonna die, he was only four years old.

He’d run into the sharp corner of a table – wait, no, maybe he’d been pushed, he can’t remember – and it’d hurt so much he clutched at his mother’s shins where she sat in the kitchen and told her through hiccuping sobs that he loved her, that he was sorry, that he didn’t mean to, that he’d miss her.

She’d frowned and pulled his arm up to inspect his elbow. There was a nasty bruise all the way up to his shoulder, and after she’d snapped at him for not paying enough attention to where he was going, she’d sighed and gently gathered him up in her lap with her rough, weathered hands. She’d solemnly kissed it where Daryl thought it hurt the worst, then sat back with weary eyes and said, _Sweetheart, the things that hurt the most don’t kill ya, even when they should_. She’d smiled sadly and said, _Dyin’ is a blessing, when yer finally allowed to just let go of it all_ , and her voice had gone wistful and her eyes were looking far away. Then she went real quiet, set Daryl back down on the floor, and didn’t talk again until the sun started going down.

A few years later, Daryl was standing outside on the street, watching smoke billow out of the kitchen windows, watching flames char the wooden balustrades, watching everything coming tumbling down, and he suddenly understood what she’d meant, because this hurt more than anything ever had before, and here he was, alive.

Despite his son of a bitch dad, he was still kicking on his twenty-fifth birthday, when he got into a car accident. Still alive, somehow. Merle’d made sure he’d made it through his teens before he fucked off to the Marines, and after that, well. Daryl’d always remembered that the worse the hurt, the better the odds for getting out alive. And even if he didn’t, well, dying is a blessing, just like his mamma said.

He’d always figured that he’d just die someday, maybe out in the woods from being gored by a stag, or in a shitty bar in the middle of nowhere from a broken beer bottle, or in a trailer park from a belt buckle to the temple. He figured all the hurt he’d been storing up after all these years would finally just be _enough_ , and it’d finally be over.

Now that he’s looking back, Daryl realizes that almost his whole life, even as he was fighting tooth and nail to survive, he’s been waiting to die.

Waiting for something to kill him.

He’s never had something to die for, before. Nothing to make him jump right into the deep end, and as he dives headfirst into the thrall, it turns out his mamma was right.

All the hurt, all the pain, built up from every year he’s been alive, he just – lets it go. It just doesn’t matter, not anymore.

He doesn’t even feel the pain in his ribs, just feels the blood surging in his veins and the supple leather handle of his knife in his fist as he plunges it right into the smiling man’s thigh.

It shrieks, so loudly that Daryl’s ears ring, and yeah, Daryl coated the edges of this blade with the magic blue goop that Bob Stookey’d made them, just like Rick’d coated his bullets, so it tears away and careens back a few feet to lick its wounds.

Bob said it wouldn’t last long, and he was right – Daryl can already see it recuperating, waiting for its thigh to stop smoking. They gotta work with what time they got.

“Rick, the gasoline,” Daryl shouts. “Burn those off!”

Rick fumbles his duffle’s zipper open one-handed, Colt still pointed dead center mass at the smiling man’s head for when he charges in again, and pulls out the tank of gasoline. He douses the hands clawing at his shins, and sparks the lighter on top of it before throwing his entire body backwards.

The hands fall off him as they ignite, skin melting off the bone and bubbling in the flames, burning faster than anything Daryl’s ever seen, and Rick’s momentum takes him tumbling onto the brown, stiff grass of the yard below.

Daryl jumps off the porch and into the grass with him, grabbing the lighter that’s fallen down on the ground on his way over.

When he looks back, the smiling man isn’t on the porch anymore.

“Shit,” he swears, and Rick sits up.

“Already?” Rick asks. “Bob was right, that was fast.” He takes the lighter Daryl’s lugging along behind him, then digs around in the grass and picks up the mirror. “Thought you might need this,” he says as he hands it over.

“Thanks,” Daryl mumbles, suddenly unable to look Rick straight in the eyes.

“Sure.” Rick rolls to his feet and snatches the tank of gasoline out of the path of the flames. “Think we got his attention?”

Daryl snorts. “That’s fer damn sure.”

Rick holds out his free hand, and Daryl climbs up onto his palm and hugs both arms around Rick’s thumb as he lifts him up and carefully sets him back into his breast pocket.

“Here’s the plan,” Rick says in a steely voice. “I guard the perimeter, fend him off, and you work on catchin’ him in the mirror.”

“A’right.” The mirror shines in the slowly rising sun, and Daryl watches the gold thread shoot to the left. “Nine o’clock!”

Rick whips around with his Colt steady in his hands. The smiling man’s advancing on them, almost ten feet away, but it freezes when they set their sights on it.

That moment of hesitation gives Rick enough time to make a perfect shot right through its forehead.

It shrieks again, rearing back with pain, and now black smoke is issuing from its head.

“Okay, good,” Rick says. “Perimeter secured, for now. You got any idea how to break your curse with that thing?”

Daryl chews his lip and stares at the flat surface of the mirror like it has instructions scratched into the glass. “No,” he admits reluctantly.

“We’ll figure it out together, then,” Rick reassures him, turning in careful circles on the lookout as he talks. “What do you remember from when he got you?”

Daryl thinks back. There’d been a lot of pain, his bones shrinking and cracking into smaller and smaller pieces – but that’s not important right now, so he pushes that away and tries to think of other things, more specific things, like the eyes leering at him, and the sharp bright light –

“I – I don’t remember much, I – ”

“That’s okay,” Rick says patiently. “What do you remember – the _last_ thing you remember – right before you started shrinking?”

“Fuck, um.” Daryl clenches his clammy hands around the mirror’s edges. “His eyes? Staring at me, I don’t – five o’clock!”

Rick spins and fires another bull’s-eye shot through the smiling man’s cheekbone. “Secured. You’re doing great, Daryl, what else?”

Daryl closes his eyes and breathes. He remembers wrenching an arrow out of a squirrel carcass and tying it up with the others, slinging it over his shoulder, cleaning the blood off the arrowhead with the grass, before a rustling wakes in the trees high above him.

He remembers turning towards it, getting the sun glaring in his eyes, and – wait.

He remembers seeing something in that flash of light, a pair of eyes, but they weren’t the smiling man’s, no, they were _his_ , it was him, _Daryl_ , a tiny reflection of _himself_ –

“I got it, I got it!” Daryl exclaims. “Let ‘im get in closer next time.”

Rick grins down at him. “10-4.”

“He’s on our six,” Daryl warns. “Careful.”

“Roger that.” Rick doesn’t turn around, but he’s suddenly on high alert, listening to the rustling of wind over the grass behind them with his ears pricked up.

Daryl keeps the mirror angled up, waiting for the moment when Rick turns around to their six –

But then Rick freezes, and his head jerks in the opposite direction.

“What – ” Daryl starts but doesn’t finish, because whoa, Rick is throwing himself out of the path of a charging mountain lion – no, it’s _the_ charging mountain lion, the same one that went after Daryl months ago – and they go airborne, with Rick’s shoulder taking the brunt of the fall, skidding a foot or two along in the dirt. Daryl tumbles out of Rick’s breast pocket and into the grass alongside him, clutching on to the mirror with a death grip even as he face plants into the dirt.

There’s a snarl, and Daryl looks up – the mountain lion is scrabbling to get its balance back from its lunge, clawing the dirt to whip itself around. _Shit_. He scrambles on to his knees, using the mirror to prop himself up, and tries to stand on shaky legs.

It comes at him, muscles rippling and canines bared, and Daryl isn’t gonna be able to move fast enough to avoid it –

All of a sudden, Rick is there, slamming into the mountain lion with a thud so loud it makes Daryl wince, and they crash to the ground with a whelp of pain forced through the mountain lion’s clenched teeth. There’s a tussle, and Rick wrestles sharp claws away from his face before socking the cat right in the jaw with the butt of his gun. It drops, and curls in pain away from him.

Rick staggers to his feet, takes aim, and shoots it right in the temple. His breathing’s gone heavy, his eyes are burning, his lips are stretched around his teeth in a snarl, and Daryl’s never seen anything in his life as wildly, ferociously beautiful as this.

He doesn’t have much time to think about it, though, because a murder of crows swoops down on them, cawing louder than a fire alarm and aiming for Rick’s eyes with their talons. Rick yells and covers his face with an arm, trying to beat back the onslaught with his free hand.

Daryl starts toward him, but Rick sees him and calls out, “I got this, Daryl, you just focus on gettin’ _him_!”

Daryl spins around, and yeah, the smiling man is creeping up behind him, shit. He’d been so worried about Rick that he’d forgotten about the crazy motherfucker.

“You,” the smiling man breathes, bulging eyes fixing on Daryl with disturbing acuity, like they can see every twitch his muscles make. He takes slower steps towards him, now that Daryl’s got him in his sights. “You got away last time. I remember. We were going to use your eyes. Nice eyes, you have very nice eyes, very nice. You know, we had to use some other gentleman’s eyes instead, after you got away. Not as good as yours, not nearly as good, of course, but we didn’t have many other options. You know, he said to me, ‘Milton, sometimes you just need the basics. A mediocre filler.’ And he was right, you know, because we couldn’t find you anywhere. But now that I’ve found you again, we might have a chance at using yours. A two-day operation, at most, and the extra work will certainly be worth the high-quality vision.”

Daryl’s body is practically vibrating with tension with every step ‘Milton’ makes, ready to go at any moment, and he’s got his knife in one hand and the mirror in the other.

‘Milton’ cocks his head and handles his knife into reverse grip, edge in, and says, “Try not to move so much, I might miss and accidentally damage your eyes,” and then he leans in, all casual and business-as-usual, like Daryl is actually going to _follow his instructions_ , and wields the knife like a scalpel, swiping at Daryl’s abdomen. For a split second, Daryl’s standing there, completely dumbfounded that this thing would ever believe he’d actually just go along with that, but then Milton is lunging in a little too close to his comfort zone and Daryl snaps out of it.

He leaps backwards, barely dodging the slash, and crouches down low to the ground. Milton may be some freaky weird dude that floats and reanimates corpses, but he’s still a good five feet taller than Daryl is right now. Every stroke of the knife is gonna have Milton crouching down from whatever cloud his floating feet are standing on, and awkwardly shifting his weight to try to keep his balance.

Daryl zigzags through Milton’s legs as he makes another ungainly lunge, and nicks at the inside of Milton’s ankle as he goes. The cut hisses out more black smoke, but it’s not as deep as the last one – Daryl can already see it sealing up.

He glances back at Rick, who’s still caught up in a sea of familiars ranging from crows to squirrels. Looks like he’s gonna have to figure this mirror shit out himself, and finish this blood-bathing creep off.

Daryl takes a deep breath, takes off his outer vest, and puts his treated knife back into its sheath. If he’s gonna do this, he’s gotta have both hands, and the knife was only ever a stopgap anyway.

He hunches down into the grass and straps the mirror to himself with some floss rope, right around his chest. It’s tight, but he grits his teeth and cinches the knots even tighter. Can’t have it falling off, even if his body’s taking a beating. He covers it up with his vest, and voila. He peers over the top of the grass, and he’s got Milton in his sights, gnashing his smiling teeth and drifting towards Rick as the last of the smoke clears from his ankle.

Now or never.

Daryl stands up, as tall as his four inches can go, and starts marching right to the motherfucker, right to the gates of hell.

Milton’s eyes snap off of Rick and right onto him. Perfect.

“Come on,” Daryl growls, clenching and unclenching his empty hands into fists and back as he keeps stalking forward. “Come _on_ , you son of a bitch.”

Milton cackles and changes course. Turns out, unsurprisingly, having a mass murdering hoodoo freak zipping towards you through the air with his creepy-ass knife pointed at your heart is goddamn terrifying, but Daryl’s expected as much, and he’s more than ready to die here to get this done – he keeps his feet rooted to the ground, watching as the inches between that knife and his heart shrink.

Facing Milton down with a grim face and a steady stance, it’s like time slows down for Daryl, where all the insanity of the violence surrounding him suddenly grinds to a halt.

He’s got one real chance, and he can’t fuck it up.

This is it.

He catches his eyes on Milton’s, who’s closing in, only inches away, and –

Daryl tears his vest open with both hands.

The movement makes Milton’s eyes flick downwards and catch on the mirror.

The corner of Daryl’s mouth curls up in satisfaction. Whatever happens next, whether Daryl lives or dies –

Got him.

Milton’s eyes widen in horror, in realization, in fear, and he looks back up into Daryl’s eyes with disbelief a second before he’s blasted backwards in a deluge of harsh light.

His careening form hits the ground this time instead of the air, and it crashes across the ground like a skipping stone on the surface of a lake.

The inhuman shriek Milton lets out echoes through the trees rings in his ears, which means Daryl hears the sounds of cracking, snapping bones long after they start. When he realizes what they mean, well.

It’s about the same moment he starts feeling bone-deep agony, like his body is ripping itself apart, the kind of all-consuming pain that he’s only felt once before in his life.

His throat lets out a grating scream as his legs stretch and distend like he’s being torn apart, and shit, is he actually being drawn and quartered? Daryl’s eyes see stars, and even something as innocuous as breathing rips into him like a fucking spear. His fingers crunch and split, his ribs burst through his cage, and he’s pretty sure death would be paradise already, compared to this fucking torture.

Then there’s a gunshot, no, two.

Daryl barely hears them, with all the cracking and rupturing wracking his exponentially expanding body, but he does, and he knows Rick had to have shot those off, so even though there’s hellfire running through his veins and tearing every pain receptor of his to pieces, he turns his head – when did he end up on the ground? – and forces his burning eyes open – when did he close them? – and forces his focus past the haze of pain and blood and fear.

Rick’s surrounded by the carcasses of dead black birds, strewn around him along with other various woodland creatures and half-melted, dismembered human remains, and his Colt Python is still smoking.

“Daryl!” Rick shouts. “ _Daryl_! You okay?”

He starts jogging towards Daryl, stashing his Colt back in his holster and stepping over corpses like he did the tree roots in the forest, so he doesn’t see the dismembered undead that rise up behind him, from the piles of bodies stacked up against the cabin.

Daryl works his lips, but all that comes out is a rough squeak – looks like he’s lost his voice from all the screaming.

“Daryl, are you – ?”

Everything in his body feels like it’s on fire, and every twitch, every pump of his heart feels like a fucking mutilation, but he bites down on his tongue and just – lifts up his arm, points.

Rick spins around, curses, and starts taking the sons of bitches down like a goddamn pro. Thank fuck. But it’s not enough, even Daryl can see that, because more and more bodies just keep getting up. The more Rick takes out, the more rise on up.

Daryl closes his eyes. It’s that fucker, Milton. Even though he’s shrunk down to the size of a fuckin’ mushroom, he’s still alive, still got his hoodoo mojo going strong. Daryl scans the grass, right in the direction that Milton went flying, and yeah, there – Daryl spots the pale, bulbous eyes, the glint of the wicked, curved knife –

Daryl grits his teeth and tells himself he doesn’t feel shit, not a goddamn fucking thing, suck it _up_ , Dixon, and does the most unbearably painful thing he’s ever done in his life – in one excruciating movement, with one agonizing howl, he drags himself to his feet with sheer willpower.

He hurtles towards his target, knowing full well that this is it, once he goes down, he’s not getting back up again, and there’s one good thing about this, and that’s the fact that right now, to Milton, he’s worse than an avalanche crashing down the side of a mountain –

He sees Milton’s tiny, bulbous eyes fill with fear right as he inevitably goes down, his legs so broken that he’s completely unable to keep them working right anymore. He brings down his elbow – the same elbow, the very same one his mama had taken in her rough, gentle hands all those years ago, looking at him with her sad, tired eyes, and carefully kissed better – in a vicious smash right down on Milton’s fucking head, and quashes it to a pulp with a nasty squelching sound.

Daryl spits blood out of his mouth, where it’s been pooling, and collapses. He did it. Rick – is Rick – ?

He turns his head to see Rick one last time before he goes, and yeah – Rick’s running towards him, and nothing else is following him, and yeah, Daryl did good. There. There’s at least one thing Daryl Dixon did right in his goddamn train wreck of a life.

A smile curls up on his lips just as Rick’s fingers brush his face, and there, that’s it – that’s – this feeling, filling him up, is – it’s –

Before he can put the whole thought together, the last of his breath rushes out, his sight sputters and dims, and finally, at long last, forty-four years later, at the age of forty-eight, Daryl quietly fades away into his blessing.

-

There was a time, once, a long time ago, long before his mama’d ever chainsmoked, ‘fore his dad’d ever hit anyone, ‘fore Merle got the way he is now.

Daryl was small, so small that sometimes – sometimes he thinks it might’ve just been a dream, not a memory. And maybe it is, maybe it’s just some useless wishful thinkin’ on his part, but. He feels like he remembers wisps of something, something that a backwater country loner hick like Daryl might think is something like heaven –

something warm, and –

and, and soft, and –

kind, so _kind_ , so gentle, and he just, he just –

he _just_ –

there was a blanket, wrapping him up, and warm, gentle arms hugging him, and a voice, a nice, quiet voice, humming into him, humming slow and deep, deep, so deep, rumbling through him like an earthquake, and – and –

And –

No, wait, that’s – that’s not –

that’s not _right_ , it’s –

That humming, it’s not – it’s –

It’s not his mama, no, it’s – Daryl knows it, knows that hum, but it’s not his mama, it’s –

That’s – no, it’s – it’s got to be – it’s not –

It’s –

He wrenches a heavy eyelid open, and yeah.

It’s _Rick_ , humming that catchy goddamn song again.

-

Still. It still takes a couple of days, fading in and out of consciousness, for Daryl to finally realize that this isn’t heaven.

-

There’s the static buzz of a TV, the clicks and beeps of medical equipment, the faint sounds of movement from time to time. Sometimes there’s a spark of pain, but it’s dull and faraway, and he’s never there for very long before he falls away again.

-

There’s Rick’s voice.

Rick’s words, washing over him.

He can’t make heads or tails of what he’s saying, but Daryl sinks into that voice, melting piece by piece, and falls asleep again. Dreams fade into dreams, and he can’t tell what’s real anymore.

-

Sometimes he wakes up, and doesn’t remember whether he’s figured out whether he’s alive or not.

It doesn’t seem to matter, really, but it does kind of bug him that he doesn’t know for sure.

Whenever he gets up the energy to peek around, he sees white, lots of white, clean and sterile. It could be a ceiling, but it also could be the blank clear sky up in the pearly gates, so it doesn’t help him much. He tries to remember what his mama told him about heaven, but his mind’s all fuzzy and he can’t remember exactly.

He wonders if he’ll get to see her again, somewhere ‘round this place. He hopes so, but he knows she’s probably too busy. He’ll understand.

-

He likes it when Rick’s there, talking to him, around him. He makes an extra effort to crack an eye open, just to see him.

Sometimes he can even catch Rick’s smile turned on him, and it warms him down to the toes he can’t even feel hopped up on all these hard drugs.

-

He really only starts regaining awareness a full week later, and even then, he’s only awake and aware for minutes at a time, breathing through tubes and eating through IVs.

It’s difficult to hold on to anything, to really remember it, like what Rick’s talking about, or what the doctor said, and the more he tries, the more he forgets, so he starts lets everything wash over him like waves; brushing across the shore, fading back into the sea.

-

Then the drugs start to go down in dosage, and fucking hell, he knows for a fuckin’ _fact_ he’s still alive, but shit, maybe it’d’ve been better if he’d just croaked already, because god _damn_.

-

A nurse stops by sometime in the night when Daryl makes his first sound. He’s got a tube down his throat and is actually trying to say ‘hey, who the hell’re you’ but it comes out a wordless grunt. She’s got wrinkles around her eyes and her fingers are practiced and sure at what they’re doing, replacing the bag in his IV, checking up on his intubations.

His throat is still raw and hurts like hell, but he grunts anyway. There’s an intake of breath. She stands up straight before she looks him in the eye, scrutinizing, and finally calls the doctor with the press of a button.

“Eyes are clear,” she reports. “And focused. Hasn’t fallen back asleep, yet, either. Pupils dilating equally. Go on, send ‘im in.”

She turns back to Daryl and says. “You stay awake, sugar. You got a man here wants to see ya. Been waitin’ fer you to wake on up, an’ for over a week now.”

Daryl blinks up at her. His brain’s moving real slow, and he has to process her words long after she says them before they click.

“That’s right, sugar, keep those peepers popped. Here he come now.”

The door opens, and the nurse tactfully steps out as one Rick Grimes comes into view.

“Daryl,” Rick says, a heavy relief in his voice. “They told me you woke up.”

Daryl looks at him, and his eyes are soft and tired. Looks like shit, though, like he hasn’t slept in a year. Daryl grunts.

Rick smiles at that. “Yeah, well, you been sleepin’ enough lately for the both of us.”

Daryl rolls his eyes, which makes Rick snort. “I’ll get some rest once yer up and around, promise. Won’t be much longer, doc says. You got some nasty breaks, ‘specially ‘round the ribs, and past injuries that complicate a few things, but he said most other damage keeping you down was from blood loss, so in the next couple days yer gonna be walkin’ and talkin’ like the rest of us.”

Daryl momentarily closes his eyes and breathes out a sigh, fogging up the plastic mask over his nose and mouth.

“Good news, huh?” Rick says warmly. “When that happens, we can head on home, heal up there instead.”

_We_? Daryl looks over at him, concerned. His eyes scan Rick’s frame for any injuries.

“Oh,” Rick says, surprised at the scrutiny, like he’s never had anyone mother hen him after a goddamn battle royale. “No, I don’t need to heal much. Just got cuts and bruises. No broken bones or nothing.”

Daryl narrows his eyes, but it looks like Rick’s telling the truth, from the superficial bandages on his forearms covering up scratches from the murder of crows. He’s not moving all that awkwardly, either, just seems a little sore. Daryl gives a tiny nod, as much as he can when his head’s basically stuck in one place, and Rick relaxes a little.

“I’ll get the doctor, see what I can do ‘bout that breather you got there. Sound good?”

Sounds _damn_ good.

-

After the doc extracts the intubation from his lungs, Daryl takes in a deep, deep breath all by himself for the first time in a week. It makes him a little light-headed, and his lungs hurt a little, especially where the ribs are still all broken up around them, but shit. He can talk, eat, and move around a hell of a lot more, so it’s all good, in his opinion.

“You’re going to have to start eating more, and exercising with a nurse every day now that you’re able to rebuild stamina,” the doctor says firmly. “Your body will be weaker than you expect for the next month or two, and you’ll have to continue these exercises with your partner until that’s all gone.”

“’Kay,” Daryl says tiredly.

“You’re expected to make a full recovery, and the more you follow my instructions, the faster it’ll go. You’ve suffered a lot of bodily trauma, with the compound fractures and the exsanguinations, and you need to pay attention to any negative developments as you heal. Come back here into emergency care if you experience any more extreme blood loss, blood pooling in your lungs, or fractures.”

“Got it, doc,” he says. “I know the drill.”

Doc looks at him a little funnily, then, and her mouth scrambles with the words she’s trying not to say. She finally comes out with, “Yes, you’ve seen a lot, haven’t you.”

Daryl knows she’s seen his x-rays, knows she knows some miserable shit’s happened to him. Don’t want her sympathy or attention or any shit like that, though, so the look she’s giving him right now is making him antsy. He shrugs and sits back, looking out the window by his bed into the hospital garden, and waits for her to leave.

After a minute, she does.

The garden down in the courtyard is stuffed full of plants and vegetables, but there’s a pocket of purple flowers tucked into a corner that float in the wind like lilies in a restless pond. Daryl watches the sun glow on their petals, and tries not to think about all the other things his eyes have seen.

-

Therapy is a bitch, not that Daryl expected anything else. Rick is usually there to watch and learn for later, which embarrasses Daryl to levels he didn’t know he could even reach.

-

By the time Daryl’s released from the hospital, it’s already been two weeks since they took down the smiling man. He’s still weak and shaky, and has trouble with his ribs, but he’s mostly back in one piece.

Getting down to the car is a hike, and Rick helps him through most of it by letting Daryl hang an arm around his shoulders – something Daryl will never admit makes him all fluttery and narvous inside – and Daryl gruffly tries to brush off the nurses who shower goodbyes and well-wishes in his direction without much success. Several of them gang up on him and order him to stick to his physical therapy or suffer the consequences before giving him hugs.

One of them even says, “Don’t get too crazy tonight, boys! ‘Specially you, Rick. You be careful of his injuries, don’t get too carried away, now.”

Daryl thinks he’s going to _die_ , but all Rick does is suppress a laugh and say, “Yes, ma’am,” before he shepherds Daryl out into the parking lot.

-

Being back in Rick’s countryside house is really fuckin’ weird. The walls, the furniture, the floor, it’s all so _small_ now.

He knew it would be, on the drive home. He knew it’d be different, logically. But damn. Seeing it like this, when it all used to be as big as skyscrapers, tall as the ceilings in churches, makes it seem like Daryl’s hallucinating, like he’s been put into a dollhouse, like the world around him is being squeezed down to his size, instead of the other way around.

He stares at a chair in the kitchen, the same one that he’d hung from in his plastic cup prison, and just thinks with a tinge of awe, _I could sit in that_.

“You hungry?” Rick asks, puttering around the kitchen.

Daryl snorts, cuz what kinda question is that, and gingerly takes a seat, the one with his back to the wall, next to Rick’s normal chair. “Could eat, if yer cookin’.”

There’s a twinkle in Rick’s eyes. “Growin’ boys like you, shoot up five feet at a time, need a little somethin’ extra, huh.”

Daryl rolls his eyes, because it’s not like Rick’s ever made _that_ joke before right in front of the nurses, but he can’t hide the curl of his smile or the pink high on his cheeks. He tries – and fails – to keep his eyes off Rick’s ass as he swaggers round the kitchen, gettin’ on his inner Martha Stewart.

-

Daryl takes his pain meds after dinner. They make him sluggish and tired, so Rick helps him sit his sack of broken bones on the living room couch. Daryl knows it’ll only be a couple more weeks before the pain goes down enough for him to walk normally, but still. He feels embarrassed that he has to take them at all; he’s never really taken his meds for pain like he should have, growing up. Usually just went without, and it was okay, he was used to it.

Now, though, Daryl feels like a wuss, because he hasn’t had to run around with broken bones for a long time, and it fucking _hurts_. More than he remembers.

Tries not to show it, especially in front of Rick, but seems like Rick keeps picking up on it anyway. Being all sneakily nice and shit. Daryl sees right through it when he casually leans forward to grab the remote off the table to hand it to Daryl before he can sit all the way up. He glares, but Rick just raises his eyebrows and Daryl gives up and takes the damn thing.

He flips through channels idly, liking the way the static shudders every time the picture changes. Game show, nah. Sports channel, nah. Nightly news, nah. Legal drama, nah. Daryl finally settles on some police procedural he vaguely recognizes, mostly because he hears Rick scoffs at the way the forensics guy is handling the evidence, and snuggles more comfortably into the couch.

His eyes are heavy, and he’s falling asleep before the judge gives out the sentence. Sometime around then, he knows, Rick puts a soft blanket ‘round his shoulders, and it makes him warm, inside and out.

-

“Syrup?” Rick asks, holding out the bottle, and hell yes, Daryl would like some motherfucking syrup on his motherfucking pancakes.

When he’s drowning the stack, Rick throws him a curveball and puts Daryl’s knife and crossbow on the table next to his breakfast. They’re both full-size again, somehow.

“Thought you might like to know I found these,” Rick says lightly.

Daryl stares at them with a shining wonder in his eyes, and brushes the back of his hand along the smooth wood of his crossbow’s neck. “They’re _normal_ ,” he says.

Rick is smiling at him from across the table. “Guess everything that got shrunk is back to size, now.”

Daryl nods. “Guess so.” He suddenly remembers the lucky buckeyes he stuffed in Rick’s holster belt and the silver saint he kissed and tied on to Rick’s keys. Goddammit, it’s gonna be so embarrassing to have to explain to Rick that no, he doesn’t want them back, and yes, he wants Rick to keep those protective charms on him forever. Maybe if he plays his cards right, misdirect enough, he won’t have to explain it at all.

He takes another bite of his pancakes and tries not to think about it, else Rick might pick up on something with that goddamn radar sense of his. “How’d it – I mean.” Daryl circles his fork in the air as he chews. Rick had told Daryl vague things in the hospital, that it was done, taken care of, but nothing specific. Too many nurses, too many patients, too many cameras. Finally, Daryl’s gonna get some answers. “Milton, the smiling man? What happened after I, y’know?”

“After you crushed his skull with your elbow?” Rick guesses with a grin. “Well, didn’t look like he was gettin’ up again, but I figured it was better not to take the risk. Burned what was left of him, and then them other reanimated bodies, too.”

Daryl lets out a low whistle. “All of ‘em?”

“All of ‘em,” Rick confirms. “Took a couple days when you were in the hospital, slackin’ off, but I got it done.”

Daryl rolls his eyes. “Slackin’ off, my ass. Anything else try to getcha out there?”

Rick shakes his head. “Nah, nothin’ else.”

“Hmmm.” Daryl mulls that over. For some reason, he thought there was a second one out there somewhere. One Milton took orders from. But Rick was here, and fine, even after going back to that goddamn shack again all by himself, so. He shrugs. Guess he got that wrong.

-

A few hours of hellish physical therapy later, with Rick ridin’ his ass the whole time – and not in the good way – Daryl gets too damn tired to move, and takes a nap ‘til dinner. The meds he’s on make it hard to remember what they talk about and what they end up watching on TV that night, but when Daryl wakes up the next morning, he remembers feeling comfortable, warm, affectionate. Doesn’t seem to matter what they talk about – whenever Daryl’s talking with Rick, everything just seems to flow, natural and easy. Daryl never had anyone to talk to like this – not even Merle. It’s got his head spinnin’ in ways he didn’t even know his head could spin.

-

A few days later, Daryl’s up and around and barely wincing at the pull of his healing ribs. Rick’s even cooled it on the physiotherapy, because apparently now all that’s left to do is walk around like normal and wait ‘til he’s all healed up. Daryl likes being able to do the simple things on his own again, like gettin’ his own plate and silverware, doin’ the dishes, washin’ his clothes. It’s nice, even though his elbows keep on knocking on the corners of furniture and everything still feels too packed in, squeezed tight. He figures he’ll be long gone way before he’ll ever get used to being normal-sized again, which is something he don’t like to think about much, but can’t help but be reminded constantly with every bump and bruise.

But yeah, he’s at the kitchen sink, washing dishes from lunch clean with soap and a tough sponge when he remembers his little den. Not that he ever really forgot it, really; it’s just been one of those things he’s been meaning to do, but never went ahead and did.

Daryl wipes off his hands on a dishrag, carefully kneels down on the kitchen tile floor, and opens up the soup can cabinet. There’s that can of tomatoes, shoved right in front of his makeshift little den door. He nudges it aside, and reaches a hand into the inner hallway, and towards the right where his little bedroom is.

His fingers brush against pink insulation, but that’s not what he’s after. He frowns until his fingers tap on wood. Daryl pulls out his microscopic wood carvings and sits back on his haunches, studying them all in his palm.

There’s a nice little rocking chair, a bed frame with his mouse-fur blanket and an insular mattress, a bedside table, and a tiny little shelf for his odds and ends filled with buttons, floss, paperclips, and all sorts of other stuff he’d dug up. Daryl smiles. He’s keepin’ these.

There’s a creak behind him, and Daryl turns to find Rick standing there leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed, watching him. He’s smiling, too.

“Forgot you used to live down there,” Rick says with a touch of incredulity as he studies the amazingly tiny craftsmanship in Daryl’s hands. “Want a bigger place?”

“Already stayin’ on the couch.”

“Yeah, but,” Rick shrugs. “I got a guest room. Could use that, instead.”

Daryl creases his forehead and leans back against the kitchen counter. “You got a bed in there?”

Rick tips his head to the side and says, “Could get one,” and his eyes are boring into Daryl with something in them, something unreadable.

All of a sudden, Daryl is fumbling for something to say past the rush in his ears – his blood’s thundering in his veins so strong that it muffles out his hearing with the sound of his heartbeat. He wonders if Rick meant it the way he heard it, wonders if Rick is thinking of Daryl staying here awhile longer, or if Rick’s just thinking of fixing up a guest room for after Daryl takes off – it can’t be that Rick is thinking like Daryl’s gonna _live_ here, with him, _together_ , which – fuck – could he be?

Daryl tries to hide the way his hand’s shaking by curling them into loose fists and slipping them into his pockets, but damn, Rick’s cool, calm eyes flicker down to his hands, and Daryl knows he hasn’t gotten away with shit. At least Rick doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t call him out on it. He just says, “Been meanin’ to, anyway. Been draggin’ my feet on finishin’ up this place.”

“Hmmm, uh.” Daryl tries to work his throat, tries to swallow the clawing feeling down, but it don’t seem to be going anywhere any time soon.

Rick eyes him. “That a yes?”

Daryl’s – it’s – the thing is, just, _fuck_. He’s _never_ – the only person he’s lived with in years is Merle, his goddamn _brother_ , and before that – well, just his dad, and way back, _way_ back – his mother. He’s _never_ – with nobody that ain’t family, never – and, and _Rick_ , and him, both of them, and – and _living_ in the _same house_ and being the _same size_ and, and both sleepin’ in beds on the same floor only one room away from each other, and, and maybe, maybe, feelin’ like just maybe, he could be stayin’ there for _keeps_ –

If he’s really bein’ honest with himself, though, is that the scariest part is, Daryl doesn’t know whether or not he wants to tear out of this place right now, run for the hills, and never come back, or settle in warm and comfortable, grow himself some deep roots, and never leave. He doesn’t even know which one’d hurt more.

“Daryl?” Rick’s voice sounds a little concerned, now.

Rick steps forward into Daryl’s space, looks him right in the eye, clamps a hand down on his shoulder tightly, and says in a low, commanding voice, “Daryl.”

Daryl’s mind screeches to a white halt and his thoughts scatter into static. Daryl blinks, his eyes refocus, and Rick visibly relaxes.

“You alright?” Rick asks, and his voice is soft. He’s too close, Daryl can see ever single one of his eyelashes catch sunlight from here, can see a hundred shades of blue in his eyes, and Daryl knows for a fact that bein’ this close is dangerous.

“Hey, you okay? Say somethin’.”

Daryl closes his eyes and takes a deep, deep breath. “’M fine.”

“What was that, then, ‘f you don’t mind me askin’.”

Daryl sighs, but he doesn’t open his eyes. Somehow, it’s easier to talk to Rick about this, with his eyes closed. He doesn’t know what that says about him, but he’s sure whatever it does say, it ain’t too great. “It’s... I... I ain’t really ever had my own bed, is all.”

The hand on Daryl’s shoulder squeezes a little tighter, and Rick’s voice is unbearably tender. “That so.”

Daryl nods.

“Well, there’s gonna be one for you here, if you want it.”

Daryl wonders if he’s dreaming, if he’s still in that hospital bed, drugged to the gills.

Then Rick’s thumb brushes his collarbone, and the stripe of skin he draws it across crackles like sparklers on the Fourth of July. It makes Daryl shudder, just the tiniest bit, and he’s sure Rick’s seen it, no matter how well he tries to hide it, because Rick just sees everything. Daryl’s embarrassment is rising red on his cheeks, burning hot, and he hopes Rick doesn’t hold it against him, cuz it ain’t like he can help it. He waits for Rick to whip his hand away and awkwardly skip over it like nothing happened, but –

But Rick’s hand stays where it is.

The kitchen’s quiet except for the hum of the fridge, and Daryl’s got his eyes screwed shut like this’ll all just go away if he ignores it long enough. Maybe, if he doesn’t see Rick’s face when he realizes that, given half a chance, Daryl’d bang him like a screen door in a hurricane, then – then maybe they can get outta this all right, keep things civil ‘til Daryl’s all healed up and he can get outta town.

He’s about to take a breath and scramble for an apology, anything to get Rick to ignore this like it never happened, when –

Rick’s thumb, tentatively this time, skitters across the same spot on his collarbone, retracing its steps.

Daryl’s breath catches, and every nerve ending feels like it’s being set on fire, spreading from where Rick’s thumb is pressed into him like the end of a fuse burning down towards TNT.

He’s barely got enough time to breathe when Rick’s thumb brushes his collarbone again, slower, more purposeful. Deeper, too, like he’s tryin’ to burn the line of his thumb into Daryl’s skin, and Daryl goes into an uncontrollable full-body shudder, unable to choke back the tail end of a wispy whine in the back of his throat, and oh god, he swallows nervously, what is Rick doing, Daryl’s dick is starting to harden –

Rick’s closer now, Daryl can feel the heat rolling off him, and he can practically feel the way Rick’s voice rumbles through his chest when Rick hums, “Hmmm, that sure is interestin’,” and damn if it isn’t the sexiest thing Daryl’s ever heard.

Their breaths are mingling together, Rick’s thumb is still rubbing at his collar, and Daryl feels lightheaded. He’s pretty sure he’s gonna have his first kiss, right now, with Rick Grimes, right here in the kitchen.

Then the phone rings, and Rick’s forehead thunks against Daryl’s as he sighs disappointedly. “Goddammit.”

Daryl’s eyes tentatively crack open as Rick draws his head away. Rick’s eyes are rueful, frustrated, but there’s a curl of a smile on his lips that Daryl finds himself mirroring. “That’s Morgan’s ringtone. Rain check?”

Daryl nods dazedly. Like he’d say no.

Rick reluctantly pulls back and grabs his cell phone out of his jeans back pocket. “Morgan,” he says irritably. “This better be important.”

Daryl glances down, away from Rick’s heated eyes, trying to will the stiffness out of his dick. Doesn’t happen, especially when his eyes catch on the answering rise in Rick’s jeans. He grabs onto the edge of the counter behind him, to stop himself from whatever his body’s raring to do, but can’t seem to tear his eyes away.

Rick, the bastard, notices, and turns his eyes back on Daryl, even as he keeps listening to Morgan’s voice in his ear, and Daryl can’t help but lick his lips and watch Rick’s pupils dilate, watch his eyes go dark and hungry.

Daryl thinks something’s about to happen, something along the lines of Rick hanging up and cashing that rain check right on in, but then Rick blinks, his eyes change from hungry to horrified, and he takes a few shaky steps backwards.

“Sir?” Rick asks, and his voice has gone hushed and urgent. His free hand rolls into a fist. “Do you want me to come in?”

Daryl doesn’t know what Morgan says, but whatever it is, it has Rick nodding his head and ending the call with a “yes, sir.”

Rick shoves his phone back into his pocket and runs a hand through his hair.

“What’d he say?” Daryl asks, and damn, his voice has gone to shit.

Rick scrubs at his eyes and deflates. “Three murders last night, same M.O.,” he finally says. “Brains torn out their skulls, and...” He hesitates. “Whoever did it, or _what_ ever did it, painted my name on the wall with them.”

Holy _shit_. “Where?” Daryl asks urgently. “How close to the house?”

“Few miles. Closest houses around.”

“ _Fuck_!” Daryl paces restlessly. “Fuck, fuck. It’s after you, doesn’t care who knows. No, it _wants_ people to know. Wants _you_ to know. Fuck.”

“Not Milton.”

“No way,” Daryl agrees. “We crushed him, burned him to a crisp. Not his style, neither.” He stops pacing abruptly. “That Milton fucker, before I – the mirror? – he said, was saying before we ended it, something about ‘ _him_ ,’ like, I felt like he meant this other dude he was working with, thought I was just overthinkin’ it later, but...”

“...There’s a partner,” Rick finishes.

“Yeah,” Daryl says heavily. “Far as I can figure.”

Rick tumbles into his chair at the kitchen table. “Shit,” he mutters. “What do we do now?”

-

They track down Bob Stookey at the restaurant, cooking in the back for his new job. Cooking’s somethin’ spicy but savory, and Daryl can practically taste it in the air from here in the booth, the aroma is so thick.

Maggie walks up and brightens when she sees Daryl sitting with Rick – fresh meat to hassle and tease, most likely.

“Who’s yer boytoy, officer?” Maggie says with a wink and an impish smile, watching Daryl watch Rick out of the corner of her eye like a dog after a bone.

“Maggie,” Rick says with an admonishing air. Daryl has a bit of hope for the remains of his dignity before Rick goes on to say, “Who says I ain’t _his_ boytoy?”

Daryl blushes so red he nearly goes purple, and Maggie lets out a high-pitched giggle before slapping a hand over her mouth. Then she laughs delightedly and smacks Rick’s shoulder. “Well, I do declare, Officer Grimes! How scandalous!” She winks. “I’ll have the cook draw you lovebirds up somethin’ special, how ‘bout that?”

“That sound all right, Daryl?” Rick asks him.

“Sure, s’fine,” Daryl mumbles with a bit of a shrug, and can’t help but fluff up at the way Rick didn’t correct Maggie when she’d said _lovebirds_. Even gave her a lil smirk.

Maggie skips to the back, and there’s a lot of noise coming from the kitchen, all of a sudden. Daryl wonders if he could somehow drown himself in his cup of water before she gets back.

Rick chuckles, and knocks his boot into Daryl’s. “Keep on like that, an’ you’ll only make me wanna get you blushin’ more.”

Daryl’s pretty sure the back of his neck is burning red now, too. “Rick,” he complains half-heartedly. “Bob Stookey, ‘member?”

“Didn’t forget,” Rick says with a smile. “I can do more’n one thing at a time, y’know.”

Daryl’s brain shorts out for a second at the thoughts _that_ brings up in his mind, and when it comes back online, Rick is smiling to the side and saying, “Hiya, Maggie, think we could have a word with Bob Stookey sometime soon? He got a break comin’ up?”

“He’s got another forty-five on the clock, I think,” she answers. “Should be about when y’all’ll be done eatin’. I’ll tell him y’all’re waitin’, though.”

“Thanks.”

The bell rings, and three people come inside. Maggie’s over there in a flash, asking them to take a seat wherever, before a familiar voice barks an angry, “Grimes!” that has Rick huffing an exasperated sigh already.

Morgan stalks over to their booth, arms crossed, and righteous indignation is deeply etched into every line on his face. Andrea and Martinez pop up behind Morgan like fucking Thing 1 and Thing 2.

“What the hell you doin’, huh, comin’ out to a public establishment with no protective detail? What the hell happened to ‘sir, yes sir’? You got any words I said confused? Motherfucker could be tailin’ you right now for all you know.” Morgan’s eye lands on Daryl. “And who the fuck,” he grinds out. “Is this.”

Daryl just blinks up at him.

“Definitely a _chulito_ I’d buy dinner, boss,” Martinez pipes up. “If he ain’t got nothin’ better to do, course.” He raises an eyebrow at Daryl. “Whatchu say, _guapo_? Me ‘n you? Tonight? _El Tigre_?”

Daryl is, somehow, even more speechless than before. Andrea smirks when Rick shoots Martinez a look that’s practically a snarl, and Martinez’s hands shoot up in surrender. “Whoa, _tio_ , man, I didn’t know, okay? Offer retracted. Offically.”

Rick seems satisfied enough with that to pin his focus back on Morgan. “This is Daryl, Daryl Dixon. Daryl, this here is Morgan Jones, Sheriff. And Daryl, these are Officers Harrison and Martinez.”

“Sir,” Daryl mumbles. “Officers.” Andrea tips her hat and Martinez shoots off a two-fingered salute, but Morgan’s eyes try to drill holes in Daryl for almost a whole minute before he grunts and says, “Dixon, huh. You ever kill a man, Dixon?”

Daryl’s eyes shoot open wide as saucers. “Sir?”

“ _Morgan_ ,” Rick warns.

“ _Rick_ ,” Morgan shoots back without taking his eyes off Daryl. “Answer the question, son.”

“Morgan, I swear to god,” Rick says sharply. “You want the scoop on Daryl? Wanna know if he’s tryna rip my brain outta my skull? Coulda done it easily enough last night, catch my meanin’.”

Daryl’s face goes so hot at that one, steam might be hissing out his ears. Andrea honest to god _whoops_ , and Martinez fist pumps with one hand and smacks Morgan’s shoulder with the other, hooting, “Oh _shit,_ get it, bro!”

Rick spares a halfway apologetic glance over at Daryl before he’s back to eyeballing Morgan.

“’Scuse my French, but we been living together a few months now, and this ain’t exactly how I wanted this meeting to go. _Sir_.”

Morgan grumbles reluctantly. “Goddammit, Rick, you asshole. You’re just goddamn lucky you’re such a sorry, lonely fuck, else I’d have half a mind to beat yer ass for goin’ against my _direct fucking orders_ and potentially letting a _serial killer_ track you out in the open.”

“After this, I’ll keep under the radar, Morgan.”

“See that you do. Don’t need another officer goin’ down in the line of duty ‘round here. I know you can take care of y’self, so keep an eye out and your head down, y’hear?”

“I hear.”

“You better.” Morgan gives Rick the stink-eye one more time before muttering “Nice to meetcha,” to Daryl and stomping off to his table.

“What the bossman said,” Martinez says, beaming at Daryl so brightly that Rick practically got a storm cloud thundering over his head. “ _Real_ nice. Yeah.”

Andrea shoves at Martinez’ ribs with her elbow. “Get goin’, home wrecker,” she says.

“Damn, Harrison,” whines Martinez, clutching at his side and stepping away. “Was just bein’ _polite_ to this here gentleman.”

“Uh huh.” Andrea snorts. “Rick here’s just lookin’ to slit your throat for being _polite_.” She grins and turns to Rick. “Won’t be bothering you on yer _date_ , Grimes, but keep a look-out. ‘S dangerous for you right now.”

Rick nods. “I know. Me an’ Daryl’ll keep a good look-out.”

Harrison nods decisively. “You need anythin’, you call us, y’hear?”

“I hear,” Rick says with a smile. “An’ tell Morgan he’s got the next doughnut run.”

“You got it.”

She takes her leave and heads for the officer’s booth. As soon as she’s out of hearing distance, Daryl’s forehead thunks on the table. “Oh my god,” he groans.

Rick chuckles. “Sorry ‘bout that,” he says. “’Sides, I didn’t say anything that ain’t true.”

Daryl can’t help it, he runs through everything Rick’d said – something about Daryl ‘staying the night’ last night, living together for months, not correcting Maggie when she said _lovebirds_ , not correcting Andrea when she said _date,_ implying Rick’s his _boytoy_ –

A smile plays at his lips, probably a kinda goofy-looking one. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Rick is grinning at him like he knows exactly what’s running through Daryl’s mind – and yeah, Rick shouldn’t be able to grin like that in public and not get slammed for public indecency or somethin’.

See, Daryl’s eyes are getting caught on Rick’s mouth with that grin, and if the restaurant doesn’t want a show, Rick better leave off, or Daryl doesn’t know what he’ll do. He’s never felt so crazy about kissin’, never even kissed anyone before, but right now it’s like he’s dying of thirst and Rick’s lips are water.

He doesn’t realize he’s gravitated towards Rick, his elbows up on the table and chest pressed against the table’s edge, until Maggie swoops in and sets their plates down.

Daryl blinks snaps out of it, sitting back abruptly in a way that makes Rick grin all the wider and Maggie raise a suggestive eyebrow. “Was I interruptin’?” She laughs. “Here ya’ll are – got Glenn to whip up a little somethin’ special for you two. He said ‘s called the Decatur, cuz that’s where he got it from. Pecan-encrusted chicken, sweet potaters, quinoa, and creamed corn, with Stookey’s gumbo on the side. How’s that sound?”

Daryl’s eyes bug out a little bit, just staring at the steaming plate and bowl in front of him. His mouth is salivating so fast, he’s gone a little light headed.

Rick thankfully isn’t quite so speechless, and says, “Perfect, Maggie, thank you kindly,” before digging in, so Daryl doesn’t have to feel so bad about jumping into devouring his food like some wild animal.

Maggie comes over to fill up their waters five minutes later, and ends up taking their spotless dishes back to the kitchen with their dessert and coffee orders. Daryl’s pretty sure Glenn put crack cocaine in the cherry pie and vanilla ice cream or somethin’, because damn.

They sip their coffees, wave as the officers take off and head back to the station, and wait. Rick checks his watch, says they have another fifteen minutes to go before Stookey gets off his shift.

Daryl shrugs. “Okay.” He’s never had any trouble waiting for things, and the coffee’s good and hot.

“Yeah, s’not too much longer,” Rick agrees. Then his eyes zip around the restaurant, casing the place, and he shifts forward in his seat in the booth and says lowly, “’M guessin’ there’s not much people ‘round outside today cuz of the murders, huh.”

Daryl nods. The restaurant’s got a few other tables besides theirs, but it’s nothing like usual, all packed and loud. He’s only been here before, what, twice? But even he could see that just from walking in.

“So I think people are scared, gonna hole up in their houses.” Rick sets down his coffee and crosses his arms on the table. “Usually, with some serial killer loose, I’d agree with that. But this – I don’t know why, but seems to me, Milton’s partner, he’s got something in the works.”

“Like what?”

Rick hums. “’S just a hunch, but. I was thinkin’, he killed families on the edge of town in their homes, right? And they kept gettin’ closer to the town, not closer to the house.”

“Breadcrumbs?” Daryl guesses.

“I was thinkin’, yeah, it’s trying t’ lead us somewhere specific – tryna draw us out by leaving a trail we can follow, try to get us to predict where it’ll hit next and chase it. Only by the time we get to the end of the trail, it’ll have us trapped.” Rick rubs at his temple. “But the longer we don’t follow it, the more people’ll die.”

“So it’s tryna make us go into a trap that we already know’s a trap?”

Rick sighs. “I think, maybe. Prob’ly wants us to hate ourselves for every family he kills, too, because he keeps killing just because we ain’t dead yet. Think he’s – it’s? – a sadist. Wants us to suffer, squirm, afore he tears us apart in the most painful way possible.”

Daryl’s jaw tightens. “Just cuz we got Milton?”

Rick shrugs. “Maybe. Could be. Might be that he’s just naturally like that, and killin’ his partner just gave him an excuse.”

Daryl hums, and rolls his mug in his palms to soak up the heat, trying to chase the sudden chill he’s got. “Fuck.”

Rick hangs his head a little, rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. Fuck. Hope Stookey can help us out a little, give us some good news.”

Daryl nods. “He’s gotta have somethin’,” he says with more confidence than he feels. “Hell, I’m a full five foot ten again. Anything’s possible.”

Rick’s lips twitch up into a smile ‘round the rim of his coffee cup.

“Yeah, they weren’t kiddin’ about the _anything_ part. Never thought I’d take that phrase as serious as I do now.”

Daryl grins, opens his mouth to reply, but a door swings open, and –

“Whoa, Casanova,” a voice calls from the back of the place – Glenn, that’s Glenn’s voice, Daryl remembers it. He turns, and whoa – he’s Asian. Didn’t expect that. “Don’t be too studly, now, or you’ll have the whole place after you.”

Rick scoffs, but Daryl can tell it’s mostly only to hide a smile. “Yeah, uh huh. Daryl, this ’s Glenn. Cook.”

Glenn waves with a dishtowel and a bright grin. “Hey, what’s up, Daryl. Don’t listen to this guy, I’m a cook, sure, yeah, I cook stuff, but I’m a baker at heart.”

“What’s the diff’rence?” Daryl asks. “Just throwin’ ingredients together, heatin’ ‘em up, waiting. ‘S both cooking.”

Glenn shakes his head, suddenly looking like someone’s died. “You found another one, Rick,” he says solemnly, to which Rick smirks. “What is wrong with you people, thinking baking is the same as cooking, I swear – ”

“Yeah, yeah, stop yer bitchin’,” Maggie interrupts as she breezes past Glenn while balancing three trays. “They ain’t ever gonna get it, so why bother.”

Glenn huffs. “Oh my god, Maggie, cooking is a science, but baking is an _art_ , okay, and – ”

Maggie rolls her eyes. “Thought you wanted t’ look at Rick’s new boytoy, not make up another excuse t’ talk about yer bakin’ thing.” She waltzes off back into the kitchen, leaving Glenn wrong-footed and stammering.

“Don’t hurt yerself, now,” Rick chides. “Don’t wanna sprain yer tongue with all those excuses an’ evasions you got lined up.”

Glenn throws up his hands. “Okay, okay. You got me, okay, I wanted to see.” He smiles at Daryl and slaps his dishtowel over his shoulder. “Hey, how’s it going. Daryl, right? You look like a pretty chill dude. You really goin’ on a date with this guy?” He jabs a thumb at Rick. “You know he’s wound tighter than wind-up chattering teeth, right?”

Daryl blinks at him. “Uh, I don’t know nothin’ about that,” he says. Yeah, maybe he could see why someone would see Rick that way, cuz of the way he works, the way he gets the job done with razor focus no matter what it is. But when there’s nothin’ going on, Rick’s really just... he just _is_ , in the same way Daryl just is when he’s got nothin’ else to get busy with.

Glenn gawks at him. “Dude, you’re so chill, it’s amazing. You probably cancel out his non-chill just by hanging out in the same room, that’s how chill you are.”

“...Thanks?”

Glenn laughs, and there’s not a single mean note in it. His smile’s nice and wide, and his eyes crinkle up, and Daryl can’t help but like him. “You’re welcome. Hey, lemme go finish up in the kitchen and get Bob Stookey out here for you.”

“Sure. See ya round.”

He takes their empty coffee cups and does a quick wipe of the table, and goes.

“’S nice,” Daryl observes. “What is he, Chinese?”

“Nah, Korean.”

“Hm.” Daryl saw something in one of them National Geographic’s Rick left on the living room table, some picture some guy took in Korea. He remembers mountains, city buildings, people scattered in fields of yellow flowers. Dream-like. Kinda nice and bright, just like Glenn.

“Well!” drawls a familiar voice. “How y’all doin’!”

Bob Stookey is walking up to them, smiling, and Daryl is more relieved than he’d like to admit to see him.

Rick scoots over on his side of the booth. “Take a seat, Bob.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Bob says pleasantly as he settles in. “Now, whatchew boys need? Looks like both of y’all got them curses broken jus’ fine.”

“Yeah, we did, but we got another one.”

Bob lets out a low whistle. “Another curse?”

Daryl shakes his head. “Nah,” he says lowly.

“You heard about them murders, Mr. Stookey?” Rick asks.

Bob nods. “I heard a serial killer’s makin’ rounds. Guessin’ that’s not all there is to it.”

“Smiling man had a partner,” Daryl mutters. “’S goin’ after Rick with a vengeance.”

“What kinda partner?”

“Fuck if we know.”

“We know he can rip apart a man’s head with one hand,” Rick ticks off. “We know he’s gonna kill as many families as possible to get us into his trap. We know he’s been writin’ my name on the walls with the victims’ brains.”

Bob Stookey’s face drains a little, goes a little paler. He sits back in the booth, stares at the lines on his hands. “You two ever figure the smiling man? Find out what he was usin’ all his bad juju for?”

Rick nods. “Far as we can figure, he was usin’ parts from victims, puttin’ them together. Jenner figured it was somethin’ like Frankenstein’s monster, and yeah, we saw a lotta reanimated corpses at his home base, but we didn’t see nothing all patched together, either.”

Bob Stookey closes his eyes. “That’s what I was afraid of,” he says heavily. “Ain’t no normal hoodoo greenie human you got after you. Not human, nuh uh. You got a fresh homunculus after yer hides.”

“So Milton made a superhuman monster and now it’s tryna kill us,” Daryl says. Stookey nods. “We sorta figured. So whadda we do now?”

“Ain’t nothin’ you _can_ do.”

Rick frowns. “There’s always somethin’. Some way to get it t’ stop killin’ people in their homes cuz of us.”

Stookey shakes his head. “I’m not – it’s not – this ‘s big, a’right, real bad juju. Bigger n’ me, bigger n’ anyone in this here town. Smilin’ man musta took years buildin’ it, and it’s somethin’ no ordinary human can hope to handle – best advice I can give ya, run. And don’t be lookin’ back.”

“We still gotta try,” Rick says stubbornly. “People are gonna get slaughtered, here.”

Stookey winces, and Daryl somehow gets the feelings that this ain’t the first town Stookey’s passed through that’s gotten massacred.

“Y’all’ll die,” he says miserably. “An’ probably won’t even manage t’ take it with you. ‘S just too much for anybody.”

“We’ll take that risk,” Rick says.

Daryl nods sharply. “’S better than sittin’ around doin’ nothing,” he snipes, aiming to cut and, given the look on Bob Stookey’s face, hitting right on target.

Bob Stookey sighs, and his shoulders drop down heavy. “I done promised myself I wouldn’t do this again, long time ago. But. Seein’ as y’all are gonna throw yer idiot selves headfirst into the fire anyway, no matter what I do...”

-

Rick’s driving the car and speeding them through the sprawling residential area as Daryl hangs out the passenger side window with his crossbow up and at the ready.

_Thunk_.

Another arrow hits another entablature detail above another front door, tacking on a thin slip of paper there. It’s a Bob Stookey special, written in some alphabet Daryl’s never seen before, and doused in some weird smellin’ stuff, but yeah. One shot off his crossbow, and they just got another house sealed off from the homunculus.

Daryl draws the bow back, and takes the next arrow out of his teeth and nocks it for the next house.

_Thunk_.

They’ve been driving around like maniacs shootin’ off magic paper for a good two hours, now, and they’ve gotten over a hundred eighty buildings good and sealed. Rick said earlier, as they were poring over the map and planning the route, that there were ‘round a hundred and fifty total residences in town, including apartments, and they’ve tagged most all of those. Plus some extra public buildings in the downtown area, just in case.

“Few more left,” Rick shouts up at him through the whistling wind.

“A’right,” Daryl yells back. He rotates his shoulder to get the soreness down, and nocks one of his last arrows.

_Thunk_. Some fancy Victorian lookin’ house gets it this time.

“Next one’s the last one!”

Daryl reaches for another arrow, but his fingers don’t catch on any fletching. “Shit,” he mutters. “I’m outta arrows!”

Rick curses, and skids the car to a stop outside the last unsealed house. “Go on and pin it on, then,” he orders. “And make it quick, we gotta stay on the move.”

Daryl sprints up to the house, rips out a nail from the floorboard of the porch, and hammers it in with the butt of his knife.

“I got it,” he calls, whipping around and starting back for the car.

He freezes in place.

“What’s wrong?” Rick shouts. “Come on, Daryl, we gotta go!”

Daryl’s eyes are stuck on the loping figure in the fields, a long way past the road. It’s hideous, patched together with all different colors and sizes of limbs, and it’s fast as hell, Daryl’s never seen anything move that fast except for a car, and if that’s not their homunculus, Daryl’s a monkey’s fucking uncle. “We got company,” Daryl yells, and his legs start back up again, faster than before. He swings through the window and into the passenger seat, and off they go.

“Shit, it figured it out faster than we thought it would,” Rick says as he rockets down the end of the asphalt and into the long, old country dirt roads.

“Yeah, an’ I’m outta arrows,” Daryl grumps. “How the fuck are we gonna pull it off now?”

Rick shakes his head, and swerves around a curve in the road. “Can’t, we gotta regroup. Stock up, start again.”

“Gotta survive this first,” Daryl says as he peers through the back windshield. “Fuck!” he swears. “’S gaining on us too fast, floor it!”

“I am, we’re goin’ round eighty five miles an hour! How close is it gettin’?”

“Too damn close!” Daryl says a little hysterically. “It’s on us, we gotta do somethin’ or we’re road kill – ”

Rick jams his foot on the brakes, and prob’ly two hundred pounds of homunculus crash into the rear bumper. Then Rick floors it again, and they’re thundering down the road again, the broken body slowly getting further and further away. “Won’t hold it long, but it’ll give us a minute to think,” Rick says with a shrug.

Daryl shakes his head in wonder. “Who the fuck _are_ you,” he asks incredulously. He can’t believe Rick is even calmer than he is in this situation, and if he weren’t already head over heels, he’s pretty sure he’d be falling all over again. “It’s getting back up, now, and it’s pretty fuckin’ pissed. Comin’ up on our left, and fast.”

“Shit, roger that.” Rick swerves suddenly and rams it, and Daryl sees it fly off to the side and crash into – no, through, crash _through_ – a tree trunk.

“Hit it, but it’s not stayin’ down, we gotta hit it with somethin’ more lasting,” Daryl says. “Like with one o’ these papers we got, ‘cept we _can’t_ cuz I don’t got no _arrows_ left – ”

But Rick’s quiet, and when Daryl glances over, his eyes are grim. Focused.

Daryl frowns. “Rick, what are you – ”

“Give me a few of them paper slips,” Rick orders, and his tone brooks no argument. “I got a real shot at this, and I don’t intend on wastin’ it.”

“Rick, _no_ – this ain’t – ”

“I know it ain’t,” Rick snaps. “Gimme yer knife and some of them paper slips, and I’ll slow it down enough for you and Stookey to finish it off. Now, I’m gonna go do this when it comes up on us, and then you gonna take the wheel and you don’t slow down for nothin’, you got it?”

“Rick,” Daryl says weakly, and he doesn’t know if he can take the way his heart is about to break.

Rick looks at him, and his eyes are sad. “I know,” he says softly, with a self-deprecating smile at the edges of his lips. “I wanted a little more time, too.”

He lunges in and steals a desperate kiss. Daryl kisses back just as desperately, and he knows this might be the first and last time they ever get the chance, and it hurts like hell, but Daryl _needs_ this, and Rick is coming at him like he’s oxygen, and Daryl’s whole world is about to break down, and this is what he’s gonna have left to remember, the way Rick’s hot tongue swipes, the way his soft lips brush, the way his deft fingers curl into Daryl’s hair –

Rick breaks off reluctantly when an odd thud sounds from the side of the car, and takes a breath.

Then he reaches over, snatches the papers and knife out of Daryl’s hands, lets go of the wheel, and throws the upper half of his body out the driver-side window – the homunculus is there, right there, and its wild, angry eyes gleam with triumph as it reaches with its long, ropy fingers for Rick’s jugular –

“No!” Daryl yells, and grabs the wheel, and the car jerks just right, and Rick –

Rick stabs a good three or four slips right into the thing’s eye, just as it closes an awful, gruesome hand around his neck –

“ _Rick_!” Daryl howls, and yanks Rick out of its monstrous grip just as it falls backwards, clutching at its eye, letting out an ear-splitting, inhuman roar.

“No, no, Rick, _no_ – ” Daryl cries desperately, clutching at the wheel with one hand and Rick’s limp, lifeless body with the other. “No, _no_ – ”

Daryl holds Rick with an arm to his chest, slams the accelerator down so far it shocks his knee, rotates the wheel, and spins the car a full one eighty degrees around, and yeah, the homunculus is still around, and he doesn’t give a fuck about that right now, because he’s gonna get Rick to safety right the fuck now if it kills him –

“Only a couple miles left ‘fore we get there,” Daryl tells Rick’s unresponsive body. “Only a goddamn _mile_ – ”

The truck thunders over uneven dirt and rocks over every lump and ditch, bounces as they hit asphalt again, hurdling through the nearly emptied streets, careening ‘round corners and slamming Daryl and Rick back and forth violently, but the hospital is suddenly in sight and Daryl stomps on the brakes not ten feet from the ER entrance.

He heaves Rick up over one shoulder and sprints inside, up the emergency stairwell and into the lobby, and screams wildly, “Nurse! Doctor! Who the fuck _ever_! Please! _Someone_ , he’s _dying_ , get off yer ass an’ _save him_!”


	5. Stavrodrómi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, hope you like, please comment. Especially if you see any mistakes, because this took me forever and I don't care I'm posting it without one last edit. You guys deserve allllll the updates

The sudden roar of activity in the hospital lobby is outrageous.

Daryl’s gotten an entire roomful of quiet people erupt into chaos in less than thirty seconds – some people lunge out of their chairs, some people go pale and shriek, some freeze in place with their jaws hanging open. Most of them are patients, but some are employees, nurses pushing wheelchairs, desk jockeys manning computers and paperwork.

One of the receptionists zeroes in on the dripping blood Daryl’s trying to stave off, though, and her face goes tight before she’s grabbing her phone and barking instructions that Daryl can’t quite hear over the noise. She slams the handset back down before practically vaulting over the desk and making a beeline for him and Rick.

“How much blood he lost? You put pressure on the wound?” she shouts over the din. Daryl shrugs helplessly, and can’t seem to find the words for a second.

“Yeah, as much pressure as I could while driving, and the blood? A helluvva lot,” he says, and it comes out strained. “Drove straight here – bout a, uh, five to ten minute drive, I think.”

Her face is grim, but she nods and peels Daryl’s hands off Rick’s neck to replace them with her own. “I already called help, they’ll be here soon. Here, set him down but keep him a little upright.”

Daryl does as he’s told. The nurse receptionist presses on Rick’s wound, hard, pinching deep inside, and Daryl’s eyes are pretty good. He can tell the bleeding’s already slowed down to a crawl.

“Gunshot?” she asks. She’s wearing a nametag, Daryl notices, as his eyes drift. Reads ‘Nurse Karen’. “Knife, animal attack? What?”

His eyes dart around nervously. “Some asshole went at him. Ain’t too sure ‘bout the particulars.”

That’s all he gets in before a hospital door swings open and a gurney rolls out surrounded by nurses, just to roll right back inside with Rick on it. Daryl stands as they lift Rick up, watches as the sight of him disappears into the depths of the emergency surgery department, and doesn’t think he’s ever felt this useless.

The door swings shut and locks with a muted click.

Nurse Karen walks back from the door where she’d been shouting shorthand to the other nurses and nods her head to the side. “Bathroom’s that way,” she says. “Go wash all that off.”

Daryl looks down at his hands. He’s got blood smeared all over from his fingertips to his forearms. He doesn’t remember how it got all the way up there; all he could focus on was tracking Rick’s heartbeat at the time. He wonders what else he’s missed in the past quarter hour.

“Go on, git.” Karen heads back for her desk without glancing back at him. “Won’t send you in the waiting room ‘til yer finished, so get to it.”

Daryl huffs a long sigh through his nose, but drags his feet obediently towards the men’s room.

-

The water is so cold compared to Rick’s warm blood, it burns wherever it hits.

He thinks he might be makin’ that up in his mind somehow, but he’s not all that certain. Sure feels real. He cranks up the hot water, but it don’t seem to do much good. Still feels like ice.

-

Daryl is sitting on a bench, nervously tapping his foot with his arms crossed. He’s been sitting here ever since Karen allowed him through to the surgical waiting room, and it feels like days have gone by as he stares at the humming red light mounted above the surgery room doors.

In reality, he knows it hasn’t even been a full five minutes since he sat down, and the clock across the hall from him mocks him with every loud tick of its second hand.

The surgeon’s aide came out to tell him that Rick’s bleeding still hadn’t been completely stopped, because an important artery in his neck had gotten nicked. Badly nicked. But they’re working to stabilize him as best they can, mainly by repairing the torn external carotid vessel with a patch. She said it could take a little bit to know whether or not it’s too serious to continue operating – Daryl reads that as ‘fatal’ between the lines – and that she would be out to update him as soon as she knew more.

Yeah, knowing that hasn’t done shit to help Daryl’s racing heart calm down. He appreciates the nurse’s honesty, though – he doesn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t know anything that was going on, or if the nurses watered it down for him, gave him half-truths, shit like that.

But _knowing_ this could be fatal, while sitting out here waiting for the results? That’s – well. In any situation, for anyone, it’d be bad. But this one – this one is worse. It’s got him thinking thoughts that darken the room around him, they’re so melancholy.

He wonders what the hell he’s going to do with himself if Rick dies today.

If he’s even gonna be _able_ to survive it. About whether or not he’ll kill himself if he _does_ somehow survive it.

About that threat, the one that’s still out there, just waiting, with hands that can tear a man’s throat out, with legs that can outrun a _car_ , with eyes that can –

 _Beep beep beep_.

The sound of a high-pitched beeper echoes down the hall, bringing Daryl’s tumultuous thoughts to a sudden, shocked halt.

“Yo, D,” a familiar voice says.

Daryl flicks his eyes up at the nurse that the kids in the children’s hospital all call Teddy. He hadn’t even heard him walk up, he’d been so engrossed in thought.

“T,” he replies.

From there, he’d usually joke about T-Dog’s nicknames, maybe bitch a little about the physical therapy hell T put him through, but right now, he’s too goddamn exhausted.

T-Dog seems to know that, because he doesn’t try to force it. No put-on smiles or hollow jokes tonight, just quiet. His eyes are gentle and his hand is steady when he holds out a paper cup. “Got you some water.”

Daryl eyes the cup, but he knows better than to refuse it. He’s gotten enough worried lectures from the nurses in this goddamn hospital from the last time he was here, thanks.

“...Thanks,” he says shortly, and downs it in one go. T-Dog takes a seat on the bench next to him, arms crossed.

“Didn’t think we’d see y’all back here so soon.”

Daryl scrubs his face tiredly. “Wasn’t plannin’ on it, that’s fer damn sure. The hell you doin’ down here?”

T-Dog’s silent for a second. “Heard you was down here, waitin’ for the surgery,” he says. “News is going around, even with all the emergency patients poppin’ up today. Folks upstairs are going and running around with crazy eyes. More gonna be coming to see you.”

Daryl nods, but his eyes are glued to the floor. Bland, grey tiles with dark scrapes and smudged marks dotting up and down the whole length of the hall. He tries to keep the marks in focus, but they keep blurring together.

“Hey, man,” T-Dog says, a little gentler. “You got him here pretty quick, and, lucky for you, Michonne is the best surgeon we got.” A warm, comforting hand settles on Daryl’s shoulder. “I know it ain’t much, but all the little things can really add up.”

His hand squeezes a little before it lets go.

Daryl blows out a breath. “Thanks, T.”

“No problem.” T-Dog kicks back and makes himself at home, slipping his hands behind his head and staring up at the ceiling.

They sit there for a minute. It’s quiet, except for the faraway sound of machines cycling through the motions.

Seems to Daryl that when it comes to surgery, waiting with someone is a little easier than doing it alone. Something about – about waiting for the same thing. He knows if he accidentally falls asleep and something happens, T will make sure he’s up for it. Or if he needs to, he can go pick something up from the vending machine without freaking out the whole time about how he’s gonna miss the next update.

He wonders if T ever did this with Rick, when Daryl was laid up. He sneaks a look at him out of the corner of his eye. T-Dog notices the look and just smiles back at him. Daryl huffs. Wouldn’t put it past him, the compassionate son of a bitch.

“How much longer I got to wait fer an update?” Daryl asks.

“Depends. How long you been waitin’?”

Daryl glances at the clock. “Bout fifteen minutes.”

“What’d the aide tell you?”

“Didn’t gimme a time frame, but if you ask me she ain’t too optimistic on the outcome.” Daryl’s mood darkens again. “Said he had a – a nicked external artery, and they were set to do an – an anapha, an anatosmo, an ana...”

“Anastomosis repair?”

“Yeah, that.”

“Okay.” T-Dog chews on his lip. “Can’t say for sure, but I think you’ll probably hear the news after the half hour mark. Maybe sooner.”

Daryl blinks at that. “Not gonna take hours?”

T-Dog shakes his head. “Suturing a carotid goes pretty fast. Nature of the business, stopping up major artery leaks before anything else. They might be done already, could be just wrapping things up in there.”

“Huh.” Daryl turns his gaze to the gap between the door and the floor, waiting for movement.

Nothing happens right then that he can see, but almost exactly fifteen minutes later, right when T-Dog predicted, there’s a flurry of shadows and a jangle of all sorts of sounds. Metal, wheels, muted voices, hurried footsteps.

Daryl’s spine shoots up straight, and he’s on his feet and light-headed before he knows it. He licks his dry lips. “This them?”

“Yeah, man, this ’s them.”

The nurse’s aide opens the door, the same one from before, and she looks more tired and worn than before, but thank fuck, her face is creased in a smile. Another lady follows her out, a regal-seeming black doctor with calm eyes and steady hands.

“Mr. Dixon, this is Doctor Michonne Harrison,” the aide introduces. Daryl shakes her hand. “She performed Mr. Grimes’ emergency anastomosis successfully.”

“Thanks,” Daryl says, breathless. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She accepts his thanks with a nod, and says, “Couldn’t have done it without your help. The heavy pressure you kept on his wound and the immediate treatment you got for him saved his life.”

T-Dog beams and claps him on the back at that. “That’s my man, D! All right! Good goin’.”

Daryl rolls his eyes at T, but can’t help the flustered look on his face when Michonne doesn’t let go of his hand and just raises her eyebrows, saying silently, _You saved him, too. It’s not just me_.

Seemingly satisfied that he’s gotten the message, Michonne drops his hand with a nod and steps back. “He’s getting blood transfusions now, and will be on heavy anesthesia until some time tomorrow. He’ll be assigned a surgical recovery room soon, and you can see him there.”

“Tonight?”

Michonne nods. “Tonight. Go up to the third floor and ask the front desk how to get to the emergency recovery waiting room. They’ll direct you.”

“A’right, let’s go, T,” Daryl says, pulling on the sleeve of T-Dog’s scrubs, suddenly in a huge rush. “Where’s the elevators at?”

T-Dog makes an exasperated sound, but he’s smiling as he says, “This way, man, come on, you know where they are.”

-

Rick’s lying there like he’s in a coma. Daryl keeps glancing at the life support machines they’ve got surrounding his cot, just to make sure his heart’s still beating normally. He zones in and out on the pattern of Rick’s heartbeat on the screen, the green lines rolling like steady waves crashing against a shoreline, and sometimes lets himself watch Rick’s chest rise and fall with every slow breath.

He tries looking at Rick’s bandage, too, the one that’s taped flat down on his neck, but his eyes keep shying away from it.

T-Dog steps out a second and brings him back another water. Daryl can’t seem to tear his eyes away long enough to pick it up and drink it, though, and he can practically hear T-Dog’s long-suffering fatherly disapproval growing from here. He ignores it, for the time being.

Light starts filtering through the windows as the sun rises. The way it brushes the soft edges of Rick’s face reminds Daryl of that quiet afternoon in the house, the one where Daryl’d seen Rick fast asleep on his mattress and thought, _beautiful_. That moment had been so clean, so pure. His mind had gone blank, and all he could do was admire. Daryl wishes for that kind of simplicity again. Right now, Daryl’s all tangled up inside, looking at Rick lying there. He doesn’t just see the beauty and relax into it, he can’t just quietly appreciate. No, there’s a whole range of things warring inside. Biggest one is probably sharp guilt, mixed with a strange, bittersweet yearning that’s slowly grinding away at him.

Then Rick’s eyelashes flutter, for a moment.

Daryl jolts in his seat, nearly lunging for the bed, but he doesn’t quite get there.

“Hey, easy,” says T-Dog, holding on firm to his upper arm. “Rick’s on anesthesia. He’s out, and is gonna _be_ out until sometime late tonight. What you saw wasn’t him waking up, D, it was just his eyes moving along to some dream he’s having. He needs his sleep, man. Gotta heal up.”

Daryl shrugs his hand off angrily, but he doesn’t go for the bed again. “A’right already. I get it.” He drops back down into his chair, arms crossed.

T doesn’t say anything, but the way he breathes out a quiet sigh is enough for Daryl to hear _sorry_.

Then T’s beeper goes off in his pocket, a sharp staccato _beep beep beep_.

“Whoops, shit.” T sighs as he draws it out and checks the message. “Hey, gotta get going. Have some PT sessions on another floor. I’ll be back later today, maybe with another cup of water I’m gonna force you to drink.” T-Dog stands up into a stretch, and yawns at the ceiling.

“See ya,” Daryl tells him as he walks towards the door.

“Later, man,” T says over his shoulder with a friendly wave, and steps out the door.

-

Daryl doesn’t realize how much T-Dog’s presence had calmed him down until he leaves. Now his knee is jumping up and down and all around, his fingers are fidgeting restlessly, and his goddamn everything is jittery.

“Shit,” he swears under his breath.

He picks at the edges of his fingernails, the ones that still have traces of dried blood caked in between them.

The sun’s been up for a couple hours, and the night shift is starting to change over to the day shift. He can hear more people walking around, talking, shuffling papers, opening doors. Laughing. There are more patients coming in, too, and the injuries aren’t as serious.

Daryl thinks about how every single one of these people left their homes and drove over here to the hospital – and in doing so, had, unknowingly, been risking their lives. Any one of them could have driven down the wrong road and had the bad luck to see a strange, malformed monster in the corners of their mirrors.

He wonders how much Rick’s gamble paid off, how much Rick had managed to hurt it, and how much time he has to try and kill off the thing for good before it heals up and starts killing again. More specifically, before it heals up and starts trying to kill _Rick_ again.

Thoughts start to build up in his head, what-ifs and whens, and Daryl wishes he could just talk to Rick about them. Words collect at the base of his throat, even though he knows they’ll fall on deaf ears, and he takes a steadying breath to let them out.

Then shoes squeak on tile right outside the doorway. Daryl stiffens and snaps his jaw shut.

A blonde nurse comes in, smiling widely at Daryl when she sees him. He thinks she might be one of the nurses that had looked after him, because the smile is like she’s familiar with him, but he can’t be sure. He’d been groggy a lot of the time, and there’d been a lot of different nurses in rotation at the beginning of his stay.

She goes through the routine check of Rick’s vitals, then takes a syringe and sticks it into Rick’s IV drip. “Just for the pain,” she explains. “Got to keep the dose regular, or he’d wake up. Don’t want that happening yet.”

Daryl nods, averting his eyes. She leaves, moving on to the next patient.

He turns back to Rick. It’s quiet, and even though the words are still there in the back of his throat, it’s like his common sense has come back – Rick won’t hear them. No point. So Daryl swallows them back down, and settles in to wait.

It’s quiet, despite the bustle of the hospital beyond the door, and he can hear the soothing sound of the slight push and pull of Rick’s breath. In... and out. In... and out. In...

-

Daryl jerks awake with a grimace to the faint alarms of an ambulance, surprised that he even fell asleep. This chair is unbelievably uncomfortable, and sticks in his back like a spur in a horse’s side.

He rolls his head back and forth to get rid of the awful crick in his neck, but he can tell it’s not going anywhere any time soon. Sighing, he straightens up and rubs at the worst of it, right where his neck meets his shoulder.

The sunlight coming through the window is at a completely different angle than before. Daryl guesses it’s maybe one or two in the afternoon, so he’s probably been out five or six hours. Give or take.

Daryl starts. There’s a paper cup filled with water on the small bedside table, waiting for him. It’s from T-Dog, undoubtedly. There’s pink hearts dotted across it, and fat, smiling cherubs that tick Daryl off with their smug little faces as they float on their multi-colored clouds. He glares at the happy, colorful little cup before gulping its water down, crumpling it up, and tossing it into the wastebasket.

Rick is still sound asleep, and all the various beeps and blips of his monitors are following the same steady patterns. His eyes skitter under his lids as he dreams, and Daryl wonders what it’s about.

He hopes it’s about something far, far away from any hidden shacks bursting with long-dead hands.

-

A few nurses come by the room during their breaks, ones that Daryl knows. They’re loud and cheerful, despite everything, and Daryl will never admit it, but they lift his spirits a bit. They poke and prod at him, fuss over Rick’s vitals, and ask way too many questions, things like –

“How’d this happen?” “When’d he get out of surgery?” “When was the last time you ate?” “How much have you been eating per day? Have you lost weight?” “Do you know how long he took to get care?” “Do you think we should give him a shave? How long has it been, because that stubble is near overgrown...”

It’s like a Gatling gun of infinitely splintering conversations being fired at him, and Daryl can’t hope to deal with them all before ten more pop up. These questions would have been overwhelming for any mortal man. Nurses have a tendency towards interrogation, especially in groups, even more especially when they personally know and care for the interrogated, and this time is no exception. Daryl, however, has to contend with something more than just that – Nurse Su.

Su, who had been one of the main nurses assigned to Daryl’s ward, is inquisitive on a whole ‘nuther level. An incredibly, exceedingly _uncomfortable_ level. Right when she enters, she peers in close, scrunches up her nose, and immediately inquires, “Been having any bowel trouble, Daryl? Diarrhea? Constipation? Or maybe some of both? Any odd colors in your stool?”

Nurse Lucerne smacks her on the arm with a scoff. “Su, please, like Daryl wants to answer that right now.”

Su shakes her head and purses her lips, muttering about the uselessness of social etiquette and how it only gets in the way of medical care, which Lucerne rolls her eyes at.

Not a second later, though, Lucerne leans in and asks him conspiratorially, “But if you did have bowel problems, dear, you know you could tell us, right?”

Daryl stammers and painfully winds his way through the rest of _that_ conversation. It involves a lot of detailed questions about different forms of diarrhea or constipation he may be having, the forms mostly described by a particularly intense Su (she seems oddly passionate about bowel issues, and even offers to sift through one of his stool samples for him sometime), and only truly ends once more nurses come to visit and press Su and Lucerne out.

Thank fuck that’s over, Daryl thinks to himself as he watches Su and Lucerne take their leave.

He’s never going to look at his shit the same way again, not after that.

The visits that follow seem pretty uneventful, in comparison. There’s a near thing, when Nurse Phillips tuts and gestures at Rick’s inner elbow where his IV sticks in like it insulted her mother:

“Who’s the nurse assigned to him, they need to change out his IV – ”

“Phillips, if you touch his IV I’m calling the Lead RN. I mean it.”

“Come on, Parsons, look at this IV, they’ve got bruising going on here, how many times did it take for them to get in it the vein – ”

“Leave it, Phillips, I’m warning you.”

But it doesn’t go any further than that. Phillips leaves it alone – she knows better than to cross Parsons, something even Daryl knows not to do. A certain memorable incident involving a fire extinguisher comes to mind. The tacit Nurse Beck in the corner looks primed to buzz the Lead RN at any sudden moves Phillips decides to take, too, which probably helps defuse the situation from potential radical, mutinous medical action back down to regular levels of fussing.

He nearly heaves a sigh of relief when they finally flock out of the room. It’s like watching a whirlwind finally pass you by.

Silence falls again, a pocket of peace after all that constant chatter. Daryl sinks into it. Who knows how long he’s got until the next barrage.

Turns out, he’s got another twenty to thirty minutes of quiet before there’s a soft knock on the door. It knocks him out of his doze, so he answers with an annoyed grunt and nothing else.

An older Hispanic woman all the other nurses call Abuela Adelita comes in, arriving long after all the others have gone back to work. There’s another nurse with her, a younger one, with the same nose and the same thick, curly hair. Daryl thinks it might be her granddaughter, from how much they resemble each other.

Abuela shuffles in like her knees are giving her trouble, and her back is a little hunched over with age, and yet she holds herself high. Abuela’s always been quiet, never really said much to Daryl with words, but her eyes are strong and piercing. Daryl’s only spoken with her in silence, with gestures and looks as she puttered around his hospital bed.

Now, abuela pins him in place with her gaze, and says with stony authority, “Tener fe en él como él tenía fe en ti.” It flows so naturally and beautifully, like her voice sings instead of speaks.

Then she purses her lips, glancing at the younger nurse, who quickly translates, “Have faith in him, like he had faith in you.”

Abuela nods sharply and stiltedly repeats, “Have... faith en him, like he faith en you.” She narrows her eyes at him. “¿Comprender?”

He nods. “Comprender.”

She nods, too, and brings up her rosary from her pocket to her lips to kiss. “I pray por him,” she explains as she does the sign of the cross, holding tight to one of the beads. “You, too. Para su salud y la felicidad.”

“She’s going to pray for both of you,” Abuela’s companion explains. “On her rosary. For your health and happiness.”

He blinks up at them both. Nobody’s prayed for Daryl before.

Just the idea of it knocks the breath out of his lungs and the words out of his head. Somebody caring that much about him, to actually go and pray for his happiness – he can’t help but marvel at it.

Thankfully, abuela doesn’t seem to need an answer from him to go ahead and do her thing. She says something to the younger nurse, who says goodbye and leaves with a small, sad smile for Daryl. Then Abuela steps up to Rick’s bedside, one out of many rosary beads pinched tight in her fingers, and prays.

“Dios te salve, Maria. Llena eres de gracia: El Seńor es contigo. Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres. Y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre: Jesús. Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Amén.”

Daryl stares at her in wonder, his eyes wide and shining with something undefinable. He wonders what she’s saying, as she begins the prayer again, her fingers on the next bead.

“Dios te salve, Maria…” she continues.

The words wash over him like waves on a shoreline, the rise and fall of her voice as lulling as a song, and Daryl finds himself clasping his hands together and his mind calming as he listens. It should be irritating, hearing the same exact lines being repeated seemingly endlessly, but for some reason, it really isn’t.

“Santa María, Madre de Dios, reuga por nosotros...”

Each phrase has been worn smooth, like it’s been said so many times in the past that it’s been polished to perfection. There’s a cadence to it, a rise and fall, that speaks of thousands and thousands of repititions, that speaks of quiet rooms and quiet thoughts, that speaks of deep longing and deeper fortitude.

“…de tu vientre: Jesús. Dios te salve, Maria; Llena eres de gracia…”

She goes through bead after bead, praying that same prayer, until she seems to reach a stopping point – “ – ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Amén,” – and quiets.

Daryl blinks, his mind springing back to full awareness like a spell’s been broken. It’s like he was almost hypnotized or something, like he was floating in his own mind somehow.

He clears his throat and scrambles for the right words, finally coming up with what is probably a pretty badly pronounced, “Gracias.”

She turns to him. “De nada,” Abuela says with the hint of a smile crinkling in the corners of her warm eyes. Then she tucks away her rosary, its small beads clinking against each other as they settle in her pocket, and heads out the door. Daryl watches her go, and his fingers are still woven together in a vague semblence of prayer.

“Hear that, Rick?” Daryl murmurs. His lips turn up at the edges. “We got us some prayers, now. ‘S gotta count for somethin’.”

-

The hallways are busier, all of a sudden.

Daryl only notices because he’s finally been forced out of Rick’s room and firmly ordered to eat something by the nurse. Beth, she said her name was, and the way Beth was wielding that syringe full of sedative, it was only wise to capitulate.

So, here he is, scowling at the vending machine. There’s Reeses, Gummi Worms, Snickers bars, Cheetos. None of it sounds good, all of it’s overpriced, and Daryl’s pretty sure if T-Dog saw him eating any of it he’d have big trouble on his hands.

Yeah, T-Dog’s kinda all about that healthy diet crap. It’s a pain.

But all around him, there’s movement. Lead RNs barking orders, nurses frantically dashing around to collect equipment, papers, clean scrubs, all kinds of stuff.

“”S goin’ on?” Daryl asks one of them. It’s Parsons, the one with the fire extinguisher fiasco, and she looks stressed with rings under her eyes as she stuffs together a binder full of various file folders. It’s odd, because Parsons is the type to stay cool and collected. He ducks in a little closer and searches her face. “Parsons? Hey, what’s goin’ on?”

Parsons jerks back in surprise, and Daryl immediately backs off. “You doin’ alright?” He asks carefully.

Parsons blows out a breath and pinches her nose. “Sorry, um, yeah, I’m doin’ fine. Just, most nurses are being called into the ER right now, even though the afternoon shift is supposed to be ending and I’m supposed to be going home in ten minutes. Looks like that’s not gonna happen, though.”

Daryl frowns. “Why, what happened?”

She shakes her head. “Nobody’s sure, ‘cept the police, but there’s been a huge influx of patients rushed to the ER in the last half hour. Over twenty critical conditions, and so far the count has no signs of slowing down.”

Daryl’s forehead creases. “What kind of critical conditions?”

Parsons doesn’t get to answer, because Phillips grabs her arm and hisses, “Come on, Lydia, we gotta go, we’re gonna set it back ten minutes already,” and they’re hurrying down the hall and around the corner.

Daryl stands in front of the vending machine, nurses darting all around him, and watches them disappear down a corridor with that frown still on his face.

Then the intercom buzzes on, and a voice says, “Attention, the police department has just declared the town to be in a state of emergency; patients and visitors please remain in the building as we are on lockdown, repeat, patients and their visitors, please remain in the building as we are on lockdown,” and things go a little sideways.

-

Despite the pandemonium, Daryl somehow gets back to the room in one piece. Rick is still there, breathing softly.

Unfortunately, he’s not the only person in the room.

Daryl’s hand flies straight to the stolen butter knife he’s keeping at the small of his back until he realizes who it is.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Daryl complains. “Can’t just go and spook a guy like that, Stookey.”

“Sorry,” Bob Stookey says with a wry grin. “There’s a reason why they used to call me Spooky Stookey, y’know.”

Daryl huffs. “That’s fer damn sure.” He plops back down into his seat and gestures at Rick. “Guess you prob’ly know how things went down already, huh.”

Stookey shrugs. “Still’d like to hear it from y’all. Not sure I got all the particulars.”

“Mm. Well. We tagged all we wanted tagged. Caught us just as we was leavin’ to get back, Rick stabbed the rest of what we got of those hoodoo paper things into its eye with my knife. Pretty much it.”

Stookey nods, like he’s already pieced that much together on his own. “Surprised you both got outta that alive. No small feat, survivin’ that kind of attack.”

“Nearly didn’t.”

Stookey goes quiet at that. They both look at Rick, who’s really only alive right now by the skin of his teeth.

“So, state of emergency?” Daryl prompts. “What’s goin’ on out there?”

“Usual. People gettin’ ripped apart soon as they step out their houses,” Stookey says bitterly. “Least now, with the police havin’ declared lockdown, nobody’s gonna be doin’ that much anymore.”

“That’s good.” Daryl crosses his arms. “How’d the police figure – I mean, do they know about the ‘munculus?”

Stookey lip shrugs. “They’re sayin’ it was a serial killer in their announcement, but I was there when it happened, so’s I know they know better.”

“When _what_ happened?” It’s getting a little frustrating, having to ask the same question over and over again through different words with no real answers. So much so that Daryl rises to his feet, fists clenching at his sides, and glares.

“When the Sheriff and his deputies got acquainted with it,” Bob Stookey says, and Daryl’s chest fills with dread.

“Are they – ”

Bob cuts him off there with a real loud voice. “Hey. So, you know what happened to poor lil Rick o’er here? Looks real serious.”

“Uh,” Daryl says.

Daryl looks over his shoulder, right where Bob Stookey is looking. The door is ajar, and there’s a nurse halfway through the door, stopped with her hand on the doorknob. It’s Beth.

“Got... attacked,” he says back to Bob.

She bites her lip, eyes flicking between them. “Should I come back later? I was jus’ gonna check his vitals...”

Daryl sighs through his nose. “Nah, come on in.”

Him and Bob awkwardly stand there and watch as Beth goes through the regular vitals check and pain medication. She also peels off the bandages at Rick’s neck, and checks for bleeding and if any of the stitches have popped. Then she puts on brand new ones, bright white and clean as could be, and hightails it out of there.

The door clicks shut behind her.

Daryl throws himself back in his seat with a groan. He waves his hand at Bob to continue.

“They’re alive,” Bob starts off. Which is a real relief. “All three of ‘em. But they sure as hell saw what really happened – at the restaurant, right, in the kitchens, I was cooking up a storm, see, and then I heard the screams. ‘Course I had to go look, and you know that big ol’ window at the front of the diner?” Daryl nods. “Well, the whole window was one big massacre scene. The goddamn homunculus was there, rippin’ people open. Whole restaurant, stuck in shock.”

Daryl can imagine.

Bob continues, “And you know who was sittin’ in their booth, right by the window? Yeah, the three stooges. Morgan, Harrison, and Martinez. So’s of course once they unfreeze, all these brave fools do is get up and make for the front door, drawin’ their guns.”

“How’d they survive?”

Bob flaps his hand. “They didn’t get no farther than that, chile, ‘cuz I stopped ‘em,” he says. “Tried to brush past me after I grabbed at ‘em, but I managed t’ throw ‘em off balance enough to get in front of ‘em. Barely got ‘em behind the doorjamb ‘fore that damn thing crashed up against the barrier. They done saw with their own eyes, the way that thing hit empty air like it was solid brick. They saw them seals pinned to that thing’s eye, burnin’ the skin ‘round it. And, and, y’know, they might not’ve believed it even then, ‘cuz people can sure be stubborn ‘bout that sorta thing, magic, y’know how people can be, but then they saw me grab a fistfulla aconite out my pocket and lay it right on the thing. Squirreled right outta there, yellin’ with half ‘is arm meltin’ off.” Bob nods. “Didn’t ask me too many things after that, ‘cept what to do next.”

“So, they’re all okay? Them and the people at the restaurant?”

“Yessir, got all the souls outta that place and trucked ‘em over here to the hospital all together. Fixed up a van with summa them seals and drove right on in.”

“Then they called in the emergency state stuff?”

“Yeah, did’t the way over here. It’ll give us some time to deal with this thing without anyone else gettin’ hurt.”

“If we manage to deal with it,” Daryl points out.

Bob shrugs. “We don’t, and we’ll have a helluva lot more problems ‘n we do now.”

Can’t argue with that.

“So what’s our next move?” Daryl asks.

Bob’s eyes flick over at him. “Was kinda hopin’ you had a little somethin’ in mind, t’ be honest.”

Well, shit.

“I need a goddamn drink,” Daryl groans, slumping over ‘til his elbows are resting on his knees. He doesn’t say that often, or ever, but he sure means it now. “A’right. A’right. Gimme a minute to think.”

-

Bob gives him that minute, and a few more besides. He also comes back from the cafeteria with an extra tray of food and sets it down for Daryl. Cold chicken and potatoes.

By then, it’s past four o’clock. Only five hours ‘til sundown. According to Bob Stookey, now’s a better chance than ever to take him down, before he has a chance to heal up his arm and eye any more during the nighttime.

No pressure.

-

The quiet minute Daryl asked for doesn’t last long.

Clock strikes four twenty-six, and there’re heavy footsteps in the hall coming right up to their room, followed by three raps on the door.

“Stookey,” Morgan barks. “You in here?”

The door opens before Stookey can answer.

“Thought so. C’mon,” Morgan says to Harrison and Martinez, who file into the room behind him. They all get their eyes stuck on Rick in the hospital bed, especially lingering on the wound in his neck.

“Sheriff,” Bob says politely. “Deputies.”

“Cut the crap, Stook, we got a plan of attack?” Harrison shoots back. “We did what you said, got all those salt lines down on the second floor.”

“Yeah, an’ people think we’re fuckin’ loco,” Martinez adds. “Even Harrison’s wife was lookin’ at her funny.”

The look Harrison shoots Martinez is practically poisonous. He wisely shuts his big damn mouth.

Huh. Daryl didn’t know Harrison was married, but there’s the ring, right on her finger. And to a woman? No wonder the town’s been so chill about him and Rick, if they got lesbians married here in the heart of Georgia already. He wonders who her wife is.

“Got the salt down, is the important part,” Harrison says, still glaring daggers at Martinez.

“Good,” Bob says. “That’ll keep us good and safe in here for awhile. Daryl here – ”

All three officers swivel their heads around and notice Daryl’s there, all of a sudden. Daryl’s not so sure he likes the intensity of their attentions.

“- he’s the one comin’ up with the plan. Hunter. Knows a lil bout hoodoo, too.”

Thanks a shit-ton, Stookey. Real nice.

“Yo, dude!” Martinez exclaims. “Daryl, like, Rick’s _hombre_ , Daryl, huh? And ‘e knows about the hoodoo on the down low, too? Nice. How’s it goin’, man? You lookin’ good. And not just good, but _good_ good, you know?”

Harrison socks him in the shoulder. “Shuddup, Martinez. Even when Rick’s in the hospital, you gonna hit on his man?”

“Nah, dog, I wasn’t, I mean, I was jus’ _sayin’_ – ”

“Can it, deputies.” Morgan’s glare narrows. “ _This_ guy? _This_ guy got a plan? I ain’t seen shit from him that tells me he’d be qualified to do this. So tell me, huh. Why ain’t you the one doin’ it, Stookey? You’re the one with all the mojo.”

Bob chews on his lip. Daryl’s not sure if it’s because he’s in deep thought of if that’s just what he does when he’s about to lie his ass off.

“I ain’t one to hunt,” Bob Stookey says at last. “I don’t go about hoodoo the same way y’all go about yer jobs. Hoodoo ain’t about trackin’, or investigatin’, or killin’ to me at all. Can’t rightly say that I be qualified for all that hunting and plannin’ stuff just cuz I can taste that savory Cajun hoodoo most other people can’t. Fact is, Daryl done a lot better job of it most his life. Knows how. Me, I jus’ help where I can, fill in the gaps that he don’t already know of the hoodoo involved. S’not for me to say what to do when, not when we got this here pair of natural born hunters if I ever seen any.” He gestures at Rick. “Together, these two done more ‘n I ever could’ve already to that monster out there. You saw its eye?”

Morgan’s tongue runs along his top row of teeth. “Saw it,” he grits out, like he wishes he’d never seen it in the first place. “You sayin’ these two did that?”

“Sure as hell am.” Bob sniffs. “’S how Rick got _that_ – ” He points to Rick’s neck, “ – and, I’d like to add, both of ‘em got away alive. You seen up close how hard that is to do.”

The muted horror on all their faces agrees with that statement.

“Okay, man, so, how did you two get away? Because, damn. Did you _see_ the moves on that motherfucker?”

“Not now, Martinez.”

“Damn, Andrea, I was only – ”

“ _Deputies_.” Morgan looks like he’s had it up to here with their bickering today, with all the other shit going on. There’s an especially wild look in his eyes, like he’s two seconds away from strangling both of them before quitting his job and settling somewhere thousands of miles away. Which, given the current circumstances, might not be a totally bad idea. “What’ll it be, then, Daryl? You got a plan?”

“Nah, not yet.” Before he gets torn apart by Morgan’s laser eyes, Daryl adds, “I got a place to start, though.”

“An’ where’s that.”

Daryl rolls forward in his seat. “So, okay, we got this ‘munculous thing runnin’ round outside that can outrun, outfight, outmaneuver most everything we can do, right. It can’t come inside, we can’t go outside, and we got maybe four n’ a half hours before sundown to take a shot at it. Sound about right?”

“Right,” Morgan says grimly.

“Sounds pretty hopeless,” Martinez says, his face falling.

Daryl shrugs. He’d went around for months thinking he’d never be over five foot tall again, and now, here he is.

“Seems to me, it’s like... huntin’ down a gator,” Daryl says thoughtfully. “Can’t go in the water, can’t hunt at night, and have no chance at beatin’ it when you’re up close and personal.”

“Huh, okay,” says Harrison in surprise. She looks oddly at home with the idea of hunting down alligators. Daryl wonders if she’s a hunter herself. “Gators. So we’ve gotta outthink it into a trap.”

“Zactly. One that uses its own strength against it.” Daryl chews on his thumbnail. “Only question is, do we got anything magic can help us with that? Ain’t no way a wire trap or a fishhook is gonna do the job on this son of a bitch.”

They all look at Stookey.

“We got anything like that, Bob?” Daryl asks.

He hums, long and drawn out. Mulling it over, rolling some ideas around. Then he tips his head to the side with a raised eyebrow, rubbing at his chin. “I might have a lil somethin’ in mind...”

-

The first thing they do is cordon off the lower floor of the hospital. It’s easy for the Sheriff and his deputies to usher everyone up the stairs and elevators, resettling them for ‘safety concerns’ due to the emergency lockdown. Daryl figures it’ll be enough to keep them away from the action. People ask questions, but they’re few and most of them don’t challenge further than, “What’s going on out there,” or something along those lines.

The one that doesn’t fold after a quick answer, well. Stookey talks with him quietly as the rest of the people file out over to the stairs. Daryl glances over, and it’s a tall, broad black man wearing an apron with a red T’s Diner silkscreened onto it. He ducks a little closer, just enough to hear Bob mutter –

“ – Tyreese, I know you saw it, and I know you wanna do somethin’, but someone gotta be up there with all them kids and patients that knows a lil bout what’s happenin’ down here.” Stookey shoves something into Tyreese’s hand, a little bag, while furtively looking around. “Anything happens, you think it gets to y’all up there, you use this, y’hear? Just like I did.”

Tyreese looks down at his hand, then looks back up at Stookey. His eyes are measuring and calm. “...I hear,” he seems to relent, and retreats. Tyreese grabs the small hands of the couple of children waiting for him to usher them into the elevator.

For now, the hallways empty and the sounds of steps fade with the crowd. Tyreese and his small band of children – and a few scared parents – are the last group to go. Out of almost two hundred people that were on the ground floor, there’s almost no one left except Daryl, Bob Stookey, and the Sheriff and his deputies. Almost ready.

There’s a few people lagging behind, though.

Daryl frowns and jogs up to them.

“C’mon, guys, let’s get a move-on. Stairs or elevator?”

“I’m not going,” Maggie says stubbornly. Her arms are crossed and she looks angry enough to scratch someone’s eyes out.

“If she’s not going, I’m not going either,” Glenn says, just as stubbornly. Maggie glares at him before seeming to accept it.

“There, see? We’re stayin’. Y’hear?”

Daryl groans. “C’mon, git outta here. Get on up there with the rest of ‘em. ‘S not safe down here.”

Maggie snorts. “Ain’t no place safe tonight.”

More true than she knows. Or, wait.

Daryl looks at her closely. She’s got a grim slash for a mouth and hardened eyes. Pretty clear she’s terrified, but damn it, she’s planning on going down fighting. Glenn is right behind her, and yeah, with that look on his face, Daryl knows he’d move heaven and earth to protect Maggie from damn near everything.

“Y’all were at the restaurant,” Daryl realizes. Just like Tyreese was. They all work there, after all. It makes sense, once he stops to think about it. “Saw it.”

Maggie forces down a swallow. “Yeah.”

“Yeah, we did,” Glenn says challengingly, stepping forward with his arms crossed. “And I’m gonna help.”

Maggie whips around with a dark, dangerous look on her face.

“ _We’re_ going to help,” Glenn hastily amends.

She nods sharply, satisfied, and turns back to Daryl. “See? We’re stayin’. So there.”

Daryl narrows his eyes at her, a sharp comment building on his tongue. He reins himself in, though, after catching how Maggie’s tight fist at her side is shaking.

He sighs, looking over the two of them, and shrugs. Not much he can do to stop them from doing what they want besides a knock down drag out fight, and he doesn’t really have the time or energy for that. Maybe Stookey’ll be able to change their minds, like he did with Tyreese. Daryl nods, pinning his hopes on Bob Stookey to knock some sense back into them. “A’right. C’mon. We’re talkin’ t’ Stookey t’ get this sorted out. See what _he_ says ‘bout this.”

There’s some whispered arguing and a faint smack behind him, but after a moment or two of squabbling, they follow his lead.

-

Instead of talking them out of it like a responsible hoodoo practitioner and getting them to hustle back upstairs with the rest of the hoi polloi, when Bob Stookey sees Maggie and Glenn waddling behind Daryl like baby ducklings, he just smiles and says, “Maggie, Glenn, hey! Y’all doin’ all right?”

“Hey, Bob,” Glenn says good-naturedly. Maggie just grins at him, checking him with her shoulder.

“Glad y’all came,” Bob says sincerely. “’S brave of the two ‘a you. Thanks fer comin’ to help.”

Daryl looks at him, appalled. “The fuck, Spook! Get these brats upstairs, like you did with that other dude.”

“Spook?” Glenn mouths to himself dubiously, like he’s wondering if he heard it right. Daryl ignores him.

Bob looks a little sheepish. “So you heard me talkin’ with Tyreese, then, huh.”

Daryl doesn’t bother answering the rhetorical question.

“...I know what yer thinkin’, Daryl, but these two helped me out a lot at th’ restaurant. Good under pressure, work well inna group.”

“Tyreese didn’t?”

“Not what I meant.” Bob shakes his head. “Ty, he natural at protectin’. Not attackin’. First thing he did, was get all them children and customers huddled up safe. What we’re fightin’, you gotta be on the attack, and Tyreese... Well. He’s best bein’ up there, holdin’ down the fort. They need someone up there anyhow, can’t think of anyone better to do that than him.”

“Don’t mean we should let these two kids die with us,” Daryl points out, jabbing a thumb in Maggie and Glenn’s general direction.

“We ain’t kids!” Maggie says, outraged.

“We need all the help we can get it we gonna make this work,” Bob counters. “Good, dependable help. No hesitation.”

Daryl raises an eyebrow. “An’ these kids got that? And they realize they’re prob’ly gonna die, ninety-nine times outta a hundred?”

Daryl notices that they both go pale at that, but – going on their facial expressions – they also both keep their resolve.

Bob nods. “They got that. And yeah. They saw what it can do. They know.”

Daryl sighs. “They die, that’s on you, Spooky.”

His eyes look impossibly old for a moment. “Chile, there’s so many deaths on me, I can’t e’en count ‘em all.”

Any levity left in the air is sucked out in a sudden, crushing vacuum. Bob doesn’t seem to notice. Too wrapped up in memories.

“That homunculus was gonna kill every single soul in this damn town anyway. Was jus’ hopin’ that maybe, this time... Maybe this time, it’d be... well. It’d be different.” He shrugs with a sad smile. “Might as well do what all we can.”

Daryl scrubs his face. Agh. He can’t argue with that, and Bob, Maggie, and Glenn all know it.

‘Specially Maggie, who’s grinning like a cat that got the fuckin’ cream.

“Fine! Fine,” Daryl snaps. He flaps a hand at her. “You wanna die, be my guest. Let’s get the Sheriff and Deputies and go over it again.”

“A’right.”

-

Bob Stookey radios them, and they all meet up in the central hospital lobby.

Instead of snapping at Maggie and Glenn to get their asses upstairs, like Daryl thought he would, Morgan just nods at them. Just like Stookey did. Daryl frowns and reassesses their young, drawn faces. What the fuck did these two even _do_ that impressed Stookey and Morgan so goddamn much?

He huffs out a quiet sigh. Whatever. “’Kay, so. We gotta split into groups and set up the snares. Y’all got the second floor sealed off, right?” He directs his question towards Morgan, Andrea, and Martinez. Wait, does Martinez have a first name? Daryl squints at him, trying to remember if he’d been told in passing. Nope, nothin’ coming to mind.

“Yessir,” Martinez says, puffing up at Daryl’s gaze on him. “Sure did. Put all those weird-ass plant bags in all those corners on the second floor, just like you ‘n Stookey said.”

“And,” Andrea interjects, “The stairway doors are all closed so nobody can get down. Got the elevators locked down, too.”

“Good, so’s we got the whole rest of the building safe.” Daryl side-eyes Stookey. “You sure these traps’ll work.”

“Yeah.”

“Good, cuz our lives are gonna depend on him gettin’ trapped in ‘em, seein’ as we’re gonna be the bait.” He side-eyes Glenn and Maggie, and yeah, they’re more terrified than they were a second ago. Glenn even swallows with a loud click.

“Still got legs to walk up them stairs,” Daryl reminds them. “You don’t gotta do this.”

“Yeah, we do,” Glenn states. His voice is stronger than Daryl thought it’d be, at this stage. “Just tell us where to go and what to do, and we’ll do it.”

Maggie nods in solidarity, the fire already back in her eyes. Her arms are crossed and her chin is jutted out like she just had the last word.

Daryl chews on his lip. He thinks he might be seein’ a little bit of what got Morgan and Stookey so goddamn impressed.

Well, no time like the present.

“A’right. So, here’s the plan. We split up inta groups, set up snares ‘round the building, an’ break the seal so it can get inside the first floor. Groups got one to act as bait an’ stay in plain sight, and one to hide an’ be there to help. Takes someone to set off the snare after it’s gone in, can’t do that if yer already dead.” He points to the two kids. “You two, y’all need to be with me and Stookey. Glenn, yer with me, Maggie, yer with Stook.” He turns. “Morgan, ‘stead of y’all splittin’ up for diff’rent snares like we planned, you three stay together. Better that way, anyway. Set ‘em up, radio it in when yer done, and Stook the Spook’ll break the seal.”

Everyone nods.

“Whadda we do after that?” Maggie asks, clearly growing impatient just by thinking about it. “Jus’ sit around, waitin’?”

Daryl looks at her, pensive. “...Ain’t got a choice. “S half of what huntin’ is, waitin’ for the perfect oppurtunity to take a shot.” He shrugs. “This bastard, he’s huntin’ us. Rick an’ me, in particular. Damn near killed half the town today, or so I hear. Strong as hell, and unpredictable as fuck. So. We’re givin’ him the best opportunity he gonna get. ‘S the only way we can predict what he’s gonna do, t’ be able to take our shot. After we take the seal down, he’s gonna come in sometime. Gonna know we got somethin’ planned, gonna know we’re gonna try to put up a fight, ‘specially with what Rick did to its eye. Bloodthirsty, arrogant, and fast as all hell. Our only shot is to get ‘im tonight, with somethin’ he ain’t expectin’.”

“The traps,” Glenn fills in.

“Yep,” Daryl says, popping the p.

“How do we, uh, turn them on? Or whatever?” Glenn asks.

“...C’mon,” Daryl says, gesturing to the side. “Yer with me, I’m gonna show you how. Stook, take Maggie to the second one, and y’all,” he says to the officers, “get on your corner.” He makes a motion to go, even takes a step off in the direction of his snare set-up, but –

“How’re we gonna do this?” Andrea asks quietly, and there’s a tremble in her voice she’s trying to hide. Daryl stops in his tracks. “I mean, I’m not sayin’ I’m scared ‘a dyin’. I’m ready. I’m gonna do what I can. But how’re we gonna manage to kill this – this _thing_ , even with some hoodoo trap? I mean... How’re we gonna save everyone upstairs? My _wife_ is – she’s – I’m. How d’you know this is gonna work? I seen him – it – in action. How’re we gonna manage – what happens if we don’t – ”

She cuts off, biting her lip.

Daryl wishes, with sudden, blinding desperation, that Rick was here with them. He’d know exactly what to say and how to say it. His thoughts are all focused on the hunt right now, and when he tries to cobble something together to reassure her, he just comes up with jumbled, clumsy words. He was never too good at this reassurance thing anyway; usually just stayed quiet and did little things to make someone feel a little bit better.

He faces her and opens his mouth, unsure of what’s gonna come out. The rest of the group is hanging on to his every facial expression, too, just as desperate for his words as Andrea is right now.

He takes a deep breath, and decides he has to try.

What would Rick say?

“Askin’ how we’re gonna manage this,” Daryl shakes his head. “’S like, s’like, askin’ how someone handles a hurricane comin’ in on the coast. How someone handles bein’ kidnapped by some – some serial killer. Like a goddamn natural disaster.” He blows out a breath. “It ain’t easy, it ain’t pretty, it ain’t even a hundred percent sure to work. Pretty sure I’m gonna die tonight, and it might not even do a thing to stop this son of a bitch.” He shrugs at the look on Andrea’s face. “’S just the facts.”

She opens her mouth to protest. But he holds up a conciliatory hand, and she holds off.

He tries again. “But, now, listen. I’m not gonna lie t’ you, or any ‘a y’all, ‘bout the odds here. It’s goddamn dangerous. This _thing_ , it’s goddamn dangerous. Y’all have seen it, you know what I’m talkin’ about. It was built for killin’, and it has a taste fer it. Sure, we may all die tonight. ‘S the most likely outcome, given what we’re up against. An’ it’ll prob’y kill a lot more people. _But_.” He hesitates. “ _But_.”

He looks at the tiled floor. “But we still gotta _try_ ,” he finally says. “I know y’all know that already. ‘S why yer here. I mean. We still gotta – I mean. Okay. How many people got killed today? Just, boom, dead. How many people know what we know, got the chance to do what we can do?” He gestures at Bob. “Only so many Stookey’s ‘round here, know that hoodoo shit well enough. Only so many people s’got enough information and means to trap it. We gotta do this. We gotta. _I_ gotta. Thing’s bent on killin’ Rick, and if ‘e gets him, I don’t see ‘im stoppin’ after that, neither. I gotta – _we_ gotta – do somethin’, or we’re all gonna die here anyway. Whole town’s gonna get whacked. Hell, maybe the whole damn county.” He looks up again, into each of their eyes by turns. He ends on Andrea’s. “Askin’ me how we’re gonna be able t’ do this? All I can say is, we _hafta_ do this.” His eyes flicker back to the ground again. “For the people upstairs, for everyone. For me, it’s about savin’ Rick. But it’s diff’rent for everyone. You, ‘s fer your wife. And for that, uh, well. Best we can hope for, best we can do, is to be ready an’ work together. We _need_ t’ work together, or none of us are gonna make it. Maybe – maybe if we do that, maybe we can pull this off, and a couple of us’ll live. But even if we don’t, even if we’re all goners, and don’t stop it, hell, we still tried. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with dyin’ fer this, in fact it’s the best thing you can do in this situation, if yer mind’s made up and you do the best you can to stop it from happenin’.”

He looks back up, tentative, and Andrea’s troubled expression clears.

“Okay,” she agrees. “Okay,” she says again, a little firmer. She rubs the gold sheen on her wedding ring, and her shoulders straighten.

Maggie claps a comforting hand on Andrea’s shoulder, and Glenn and Stookey smile at her. Martinez seems to feel the love, too, because he grabs Morgan around the neck with the crook of his arm and pulls him into an awkward hug. “Yeah, bitches, we gonna do this thing!” he crows, swinging his free hand in a fist pump. “The power of love and teamwork, yo!”

Morgan shoves him off with a truly epic eye-roll. “Keep the touchy-feely crap away from me, Martinez,” Morgan says, but his tone’s less clipped than usual.

Martinez seems to realize that, and beams at him. “Sure, boss!”

Morgan stomps away towards the southeast entrance, where his group’s snare is gonna go. He’s muttering under his breath about upstart officers and their touchy-feely crap, if Daryl’s hearing right.

Martinez just grins. “Ah, he’s jus’ sayin’ that,” he assures – well, Daryl’s not exactly sure who he’s assuring. “On the inside, our hard-ass Sheriff’s a softie.”

He saunters down the hall after Morgan, and Andrea sighs heavily before she follows. “You know you’re just winding him up, Cesar,” she says exasperatedly. Huh, Daryl thinks. So his first name is Cesar. Cesar Martinez. Kinda cool name.

Cesar grins. “Yeah.” He turns back to Daryl and the rest and shouts, “See y’all on the other side!”

Daryl rolls his eyes. “Hope not,” he shoots back. “Now git goin’!”

Cesar skedaddles, with Andrea close behind.

Stookey curls his fingers at Maggie. “C’mon, we gon’ be goin’ this way,” he says, already starting towards the west entrance.

“An’ we’re gonna be this way,” Daryl says, thumbing towards the north entrance. “C’mon, Glenn.”

But Glenn and Maggie, they’ve gone still. Their eyes seem stuck on each other’s, now that they’ve got to separate.

There’s a lengthy, awkward silence. Well, it’s awkward for Daryl and Stookey. Maggie and Glenn seem to be in their own little world.

“Uhmmm,” Daryl says awkwardly.

“ _Glenn_ ,” Maggie says, hushed, completely ignoring Daryl, and takes a half-step forward.

“Maggie,” Glenn’s voice breaks. “ _Maggie_ , I – I _always_ – ”

“Me too,” Maggie whispers, and her voice has gotten thick with emotion. “Me too, Glenn, I was jus’ bein’ – I – ”

“I love you,” Glenn confesses. “I – I should’ve said – I should’ve – a _long_ time ago – I know I should’ve – ”

“Glenn,” Maggie says with tears in her eyes. “I love you _too_ – ”

They collide somewhere in the middle, with Maggie’s arms around Glenn’s neck and Glenn hugging around her like it’s the last thing he’ll do, and they’re kissing. And crying.

And, okay, Daryl’s feelin’ awkward as hell right about now. The smacking sounds in the relative silence get more and more weird to hear as time goes on.

He clears his throat. “Sun’s settin’, kids, c’mon. Let’s go. Git a move-on.”

They finally break apart, touch their foreheads together. “If we live through this – ” Glenn starts.

“I know,” Maggie says softly.

They kiss one more time, tenderly, before forcibly extracting their hands from each other. They take one last, long look, and then, painfully, start walking away. Maggie with Bob, and Glenn with Daryl.

Daryl heaves a sigh, and sends up a small prayer to whoever is listening to just – just let these two idiot lovebirds live. Please.

-

“Snares in position?” Daryl asks into the handheld radio.

“Affirmative,” Morgan replies shortly.

“A’right. Stook? Maggie? You ready?”

“We got it rigged up, yeah,” Maggie says.

Daryl glances at Glenn, who nods. They’re ready. As ready as they’ll ever be, anyway. “Okay, Bob. Take it down.”

“You betcha.”

There’s a buzz of static, for a minute, two minutes, before –

“Seal’s down,” Stookey says.

Daryl nods. “The ‘munculus could hit any time, so y’all be on yer toes. Make sure you got one hidden and one in sight. Need to, if this’s gonna work. Copy?”

“We copy.”

“Copy.”

“Good.” Daryl pauses. “Careful. Hang tight. It’s out there.”

He watches through the window for any movement in the growing shadows. The sun is just beginning to set, and every second that passes, Daryl’s got to assume that the homunculus is increasing its strength.

He sees nothing – cars in a parking lot. Sitting there. Some trees, far off and away, leaves waving in the wind. But there are no undead motherfuckers to be found.

-

Time passes slowly, every second a new opportunity for a stress-related heart attack. Daryl’s fingers itch for a cigarette, but he staves off the impulse. It’s been almost a full hour, and they’re all getting restless from all this hurry-up-and-wait shit.

Daryl is wondering if he’s even going to try to attack at all tonight when there’s a booming crash, like a bomb just went off, and the walls around him shudder.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Cesar hisses under his breath over the channel. “You guys got eyes on that shit?”

“Shh,” Daryl says. “Stook? Maggie?”

“Don’t see a thing,” Maggie whispers back.

“Hold tight,” Daryl orders grimly. “Prob’ly just blew down a wall somewhere t’ get in. Almost sure it’s somewhere inside, lookin’ for us. Git ready. Go radio silent, hear?”

The channel falls silent. Daryl turns the volume down low, low enough so that hopefully the homunculus won’t be able to hear it unless it’s close-up but loud enough that Daryl can catch snatches of sound if he needs to.

Daryl glances up to where Glenn is hiding in the ceiling, the foam ceiling tile halfway removed to reveal his face. Glenn nods down at him, and gives an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

Daryl rolls his eyes, but returns the thumbs-up anyway.

Then he loads up his crossbow, and closes his eyes to listen.

After the initial boom of bursting through a wall, there hasn’t been much else to indicate that the homunculus is in the building. Daryl tries to quiet his breathing and ignore his pounding heart to try to hear traces of something – anything – that would give the ‘munculus away.

Far away, there’s a scraping sound, and a faint yell.

Daryl’s eyes shoot open. He grabs the walkie and turns up the volume – one of the snare groups has gotta be broadcasting what’s going on –

There’s a scraping sound, and another, like nails on a chalkboard, followed by a heavy impact – then a venomous, garbled threat whose words Daryl can’t quite understand through the crackling white noise.

“Get fucked, _muchacho_ ,” Cesar Martinez snarls back.

Then there’s sprinting footsteps – Daryl hopes that’s Cesar getting his ass as far away from the ‘munculus as possible – and a deep, menacing laugh.

“Think you can _escape_ me?” The thing hisses. “On _foot_?”

“Nah, bro,” Cesar hollers, his voice seeming to come from a ways away from whoever’s holding the radio. “Welcome t’ come an’ get me, if you can.”

It harrumphs, and Daryl can hear it start to stalk forward. “Arrogant weaklings,” it starts with a cruel edge to its tone. “That they _presume_ to – ”

That must be when Andrea and Morgan decide to unleash the snare, because there’s a gross ripping noise and an inhuman roar that follows it.

“Fuck,” Daryl breathes. “They got ‘im.” Probably not nearly enough to kill it, but at this point, the weaker they manage to get it, the better.

“ _Go_!” Andrea shouts when the roar finally dwindles down to a shout. “Cesar, go and get your ass out of there!”

“Yes ma’am!” Cesar yells, and sprints out of hearing range.

Andrea lets out a breath. “We got a direct hit,” she whispers into the walkie-talkie. “It’s still alive, obviously, but the wire cut off one of its feet, at least.”

“How’s Martinez, he get away?” Daryl asks. “And where’s the creep headed?”

“Cesar took off, hope he’s gotten to the stairwell by now. It’s, uh, still here, starting to stand up again, though – ”

There’s a sudden intake a breath. “Shit,” Morgan mutters. “It hears you.”

“Fuck,” Andrea swears under her breath. There’s a flurry of hurried movement, and her voice ratchets up a little louder. “Fuck. It’s coming straight for us – ”

Their radio transmission goes flat, after that. Just static.

“Shit damn fuck,” Daryl curses, and slams his fist into the wall.

Then there’s a flurry of gunfire that Daryl can hear from across the building. Daryl sure hopes some of those gooped-up bullets find their target, so that those two can get away mostly intact.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he swears again with feeling.

-

There’s another lull in the action. Daryl knows enough to know that this little break means nothing good. Getting wounded again probably made the slimy bastard more cautious. If it’d just kept going right after it got hurt, they’d’ve had a much easier time of trapping it. But now, after it’s processed and licked its wounds a little... It’s gonna strike faster, and it’s gonna strike smarter.

The oppressive tension of the interim has Daryl straining his ears at every tick of a clock and every flicker of a light bulb. Makes the hospital’s noiseless hallways seem loud.

Glenn must notice him getting twitchy, because he says, clearly trying to be helpful, “Hey, we managed to cut off a foot. Now it’ll be slower. So. There’s that.”

Daryl looks up at Glenn, then away. He knows that already, that the foot is a small victory, but logically, it probably won’t make much of a difference. Animals fighting for their lives should never be underestimated, and this thing is way stronger and crueler than your average woodland creature.

“Whatever,” he mutters. “Slower, not slower, whatever. Still gonna hit us hard, an’ this time it’ll be wised up and angry as hell.”

“Still, we know it worked,” Glenn, goddamn sunshine optimist bastard that he is, points out in a blithe tone. “And it’s already wounded – its eye, from Rick. Its arm, from Stookey. Now one of its feet. So it can only see out of one eye, only has one hand, and has to limp around. Seems like pretty good odds to me, with all the stuff we’ve got planned.”

“Odds don’t mean nothin’,” Daryl grouses, irked with all this sudden optimism being thrown at him unnecessarily. He agrees with everything the kid is saying, but for some reason, he’s getting contrary. Might have something to do with his nerves vibrating with unease and his muscles pulled so taut he aches. “Thing’s still prob’ly fast as a car, and strong as a goddamn tank.”

Glenn shrugs. “Even a tank can get blown up with enough firepower. And this one’s been stabbed in the face, partially melted, amputated, and shot. I’m just saying, we’ve got a fighting chance.”

Daryl grunts, because he’s starting to think there’s literally nothing that he could say to get Glenn to stop with the positive remarks. He doesn’t feel like arguing with someone on points that he technically agrees with anyway just because he’s strung tighter than a hanged man’s noose. Actually, come to think of it, he’s really jonesing for a cigarette right about now.

He’s actually kind of pissed that he doesn’t have a new pack on him; he almost never smokes anyway, and he’d used his last cig way back when he was still a couple inches tall.

Daryl unconsciously runs the pads of his fingers down the neck of the crossbow. It’s a soothing motion, almost like petting an animal. It helps a little; makes the unbearably tight set of his shoulders fall down a notch.

The walkie crackles. The sudden sound makes Daryl start in surprise, and his shoulders tighten right up again.

“Daryl, Glenn,” Maggie whispers. “You there?”

Daryl frowns, and holds the walkie up to the his face. “Here.”

“You seen any sign of it?”

“Nah.”

“Kay, because we ain’t seen or heard nothin’ and we’re gettin’ a lil’, well,” Maggie hesitates. “Worried, I guess. ‘S been, what, twenty minutes?”

“Twenty-three,” Daryl mutters.

“What’s it even _doin’_?”

“’S waitin’ ‘til we lower our guards, ‘til we ain’t ready t’ set off the snares when it shows. Keep them eyes up; it can come any second, and it’s watchin’.”

“Great,” Maggie says disgustedly. “That’s jus’ great. Can’t wait.”

“Yep.”

There’s a pause, and Maggie says, a little hesitantly, “Can I talk to Glenn? Jus’ fer a second.”

Daryl shoots a look up at him, and yeah, he’s making those big, pleading eyes. Like a fucking bunny rabbit or something. Daryl just can’t say no.

“Fine,” he says gruffly, and tosses the radio into Glenn’s outstretched hands.

“Hey, Maggie, it’s me,” Glenn says.

“Hey yerself,” Maggie says softly. “You doin’ alright?”

Glenn huffs, but his eyes crinkle up at the corners. “Am I alright?” He shakes his head. “I’m pretty sure my perfect soufflé’s sitting cold on the counter, totally deflated, so. No, not really.”

Maggie giggles. It’s a little wobbly, but it’s real. “And you’d finally gotten it to rise right.”

“I know! Months of hard work, wasted. And you? You doing alright?”

“Well, uh, my shift got cut off early, had to run outta there, couldn’t collect my tips. How’m I gonna pay rent now?”

“Shit,” Glenn offers. “Sounds like we’re both having a pretty shitty week.”

“Yeah,” Maggie giggles. They chuckle together.

Daryl pretends not to see Glenn wiping his eyes.

“Next time I see you, I’m gonna ask you out on a date,” he states, his voice hoarse. He takes a moment to clear his throat. “I mean, uh, but only if you’d – only if you _want_ me to ask, which, hey, time changes all things, so, if not, that’s cool, but. Yeah. Date. Us. You and me. After all this is done. ...If you want.”

“You’d better,” Maggie sounds close to crying, and not the regular ten teardrop kind either – it’s more the sobbing-for-hours-clutching-at-your-pillow kind.

“I will,” Glenn promises, more serious than anything.

Daryl holds out his hand, and Glenn sighs. “Daryl’s asking for the walkie-talkie back.”

“Bye,” Maggie whispers.

“Bye,” Glenn whispers back.

He hesitates, looking down at the speaker one more time, waiting for Maggie to say anything else, before halfway dropping down from the ceiling and handing it over.

“Get back up there,” Daryl says gruffly, trying to cover up the fact that his heart’s melting in his chest and he’s seconds away from a wobbly lip.

“Okay,” Glenn sighs, and swings back up.

Glenn doesn’t say anything more, not even glaringly optimistic opinions on their chances of survival. He sits up there in the ceiling, quieter than the grave. Daryl doesn’t say anything either. What are you supposed to say to someone, after you overhear that kind of conversation?

So. Things are quiet for a long time, after that.

-

Well, the quiet holds out for a little while, anyway.

Daryl doesn’t even really notice that it’s been broken, at first.

It’s just like the sounds that you don’t notice after hours of being in the same room – the clank of the radiator in the dead of winter, the hum of a running car motor, the faint noise of the crappy music they play over the shitty speakers in superstores. He doesn’t even peg it, thinks it might be one of those automatic mechanical processes. Or maybe Maggie, accidentally pressing the transmitter.

See, the sound is this:

Every ten minutes or so, the walkie-talkie hisses with static. Then it goes quiet again.

He doesn’t really mind it all that much, ears too strained for uneven footsteps or deep voices or even violent bursts of impact to waste time on something as unimportant as radio white noise. But it gets progressively faster, and louder, by turns, and little sounds start to intrude every time it goes off.

They’re cut off and barely discernable at first – rustles of movement, squeaks and scrapes of friction, that sort of stuff.

Daryl frowns. “Maggie, think yer pressin’ transmit on accident. Gettin’ distractin’.”

There’s a blip, and an intake of breath.

“Sorry, I – ” Then Maggie stops, puzzled. “That wasn’t you?”

What? What the –

“No, course not – ”

Wait.

The fuck.

As the realization it hits him, Daryl’s eyes widen until they’re all the way open.

The static hisses again, and this time, it’s long enough for Daryl to pick out the nearly inaudible background sounds, one in particular – thu-thud. Thu-thud. Thu-thud.

Yeah.

Shit.

That’s the fucking homunculus.

He carefully takes his finger off the transmission button, and takes a deep breath.

“It has a walkie,” Daryl breathes out, feeling thunderstruck. “ _Fuck_ , it must’ve taken Andrea’s – ”

The crackle comes again, the hiss of garbled, layered static.

Daryl debates whether or not to tell Maggie and Stookey that yeah, it can hear everything they say over this frequency, and no, he doesn’t know how long it’s been listening.

“Tell them,” Glenn urges. “They need to know, tell them.”

Daryl nods.

“Motherfucker has Andrea’s walkie,” Daryl mutters, hoping beyond hope that he says it clear enough that Maggie and Stook understand, but fast enough for fucktard to miss it.

Yeah, Daryl’s never been that lucky.

Maggie barely has time to say, “That _motherfucker_ – ” before the static clicks on again, and a smooth, deep voice is laughing at them.

“Well, it’s taken long enough for you to notice,” the homunculus drawls through his affected chuckles.

His tone is chilling – shit, Daryl wouldn’t be surprised if he has nightmares about it, if he lives through this – and oddly well-spoken. For some reason, he’d expected it to be less human than the smiling man was, and only speak in growls and simple words, but here he is, talking as seamlessly as a narrator on TV.

“Now, who’s left,” the homunculus continues. “Let’s take a look-see – there’s Maggie. Glenn. Daryl. And one more. Didn’t get his name. Mm. Maybe later.”

Shit. It heard them saying each other’s names, and fuck if Daryl isn’t terrified of the way they roll off its tongue. Like it’s stolen something from them.

“But I’m being rude,” it says with mock self-reproach. “I know almost all your names, but I haven’t introduced myself, have I?” It clucks its tongue. “You all can call me what I am to you – your executioner.”

It chuckles lowly.

He laughs an awful lot, Daryl notices. Always cracking up at his own witticisms, like he thinks he’s the funniest stand-up comedian on this side of planet earth. Maybe that had something to do with why his creepy-ass cohort Milton was always smiling.

“Yes, I like that,” it says thoughtfully to itself. “ _Executioner_. Has a certain... je ne sais quoi, wouldn’t you say.”

 _Yeah, let’s not call him that_ , Glenn communicates by grumpily scrunching up his face in disgust.

 _We don’t hafta call it shit_ , Daryl agrees with a nod and a half-shrug. _Jus’ wants to scare us, stroke its own goddamn ego._

 _Yeah_. Glenn does an impressive eye-roll. _God, ‘executioner’? Lame_.

But apparently the radio silence after his villainous banter has stretched on for too long, because the homunculus abruptly snarls, “ _Call_ me by my _title_.”

Then its voice goes back to normal. It’s jarring.

“Now that that’s out of the way,” it says, almost pleasantly. “You’ll want to hear this. It is in your interests, after all.”

Daryl scrunches up his face. “What – ?”

“Maggie, Glenn,” Dick continues smoothly, right over Daryl. “You two will especially want to hear this. I have a proposition for you.

“Imagine it – you two. Together. Walking out of here tonight, hand in hand, alive and uninjured. The two little lovebirds, all set to finally fly free.” He sighs gustily, theatrically. “Now isn’t that a nice picture. All you have to do,” he continues, oily, like a greased-up car salesman, “is take my deal.”

Deal, huh.

Daryl’s pretty sure the homunculus is trying to play with its food.

“Now, Maggie, Glenn. Listen carefully. What I want you to do is simple. I let you walk out of here together, safe and sound,” he pauses, and Daryl can practically hear it smirking at whatever’s coming next in that sick head. “After you kill the other one you’re standing next to.”

Daryl sucks in a breath. Glenn is practically hanging out of the ceiling, and his jaw is dropped as far as it can go.

“Now I know this must seem difficult,” it says with faux sympathy. “But the pros far outweigh the cons, here. You don’t really care about those two, anyway – not in comparison to how much you care about each other. I mean, don’t you ever want to perfect that soufflé, Glenn? Don’t you want a nice big wedding with the parents, Maggie?

“I’ll give you some time to think about it – mm, ten minutes. That sounds fair. Ten minutes, and you choose whether you live or you die today. Starting... hm,” it chuckles. “Starting now.”

The radio clicks and goes dead silent, after that.

They both stare at it.

“Did he seriously just – ” Glenn says, gobsmacked. “What is this, Battle Royale?”

Daryl shakes his head. “Shit. Whaddya wanna bet that its gonna come at us at the ten minute mark?”

“I only take bets I can win,” Glenn says. “ _Man_ , that thing is fucked up.”

“Yeah.” Understatement.

 _Fuck_ , Daryl screams in his head. _Fuck_. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Yeah, it’s fucking insane and there’s no way they can take it at its word... but fuck. What if he actually means it when he says he’ll let Glenn and Maggie live?

Daryl shakes his head. No use thinking like that – it’s a fucking killing machine.

But still... He glances over at Glenn, who’s staring, unseeing, at the wall. ...It’s tempting. The offer.

Even if Daryl and Stookey are dead, if it’s planning on letting those two live, there’d probably be a short window of opportunity for Glenn or Maggie to kill it while it’s unawares.

Daryl tries to shake that idea right out of his head. He’s starting to second, no, triple guess himself, and right now, that can only be a detriment. He’s gotta be on high alert, not stuck in a fucking hamster wheel of the same revolving thoughts.

This must be what it’s trying to do, confuse and distract them. Well. Other than trying to be a total psycho sadist reveling in their suffering, of course. Which, hey. It definitely gets an A plus on that.

“Messin’ with our heads,” Daryl mutters, mostly to himself. “But...”

“I’m not going to do it,” Glenn says suddenly. He’s twisted his whole body around, is looking right at him, and his eyes are incredibly focused. “You know that, right? I’m not going to try to kill you. No matter what he says.”

Daryl blinks at him. “You sure? Could be a real option for you two to, y’know, survive.”

Glenn blinks back at him. “Uhh, yeah. Not going to do it. This thing is full of baloney. He’d just kill us after we killed you and Bob, anyway.”

“You sure?”

He lowers his weapon a little, giving Glenn an opening, right around the spot where his collarbone meets the hollow of his neck.

“Uh, yeah. Still not going to kill you. Can you stop trying to convince me otherwise, because, _man_ , this is turning into a weird conversation. Aren’t you supposed to be, like, _against_ the plans where you get killed?”

Daryl shrugs. Sure, he’d like to keep living, but hey. “Could give you an opening to get him, after. I ain’t picky, s’long as there’re results.”

Glenn boggles at him. “I said I’m _not going to kill you_ ,” he says, with extra emphasis. “Okay?”

Daryl blows out a breath. “Sure. Whatever.”

He leans back against the wall, propping his crossbow back in place and keeping a close eye on the end of the hall. One minute is a long time, especially when you’ve got no time left, and Daryl’s pretty sure they’ve got a whole nine more to go.

-

Four minutes later, Daryl can’t believe he almost reverse-psychologied _himself_ into convincing Glenn into killing him. How stupid is that? He shakes his head, disgusted. See if he listens to a single word the homunculus says ever again.

-

Nine minutes later, there’s only one minute left, and every dust mote and every flicker of every scant movement has Daryl’s trigger finger tensed and ready to go. He’s glad Glenn had his cell phone to keep the time, because otherwise, he’s kind of unsure how stable he’d be at this point. When every moment is stretched out to an eternity, so is your patience. He’d probably be shooting off arrows at flies, or something.

“How’re we on time,” Daryl murmurs.

“Almost at ten minutes,” Glenn whispers. “I think something’s going to happen any moment now. We’ve got seconds left on the clock.”

“How many?”

Glenn hesitates. “Twenty.”

“Get back up ‘n there,” Daryl hisses, and Glenn shimmies his hanging-out torso back up into the ceiling tile, closing it most of the way behind him.

“Ten,” Glenn says, muffled.

“’Kay.”

Daryl takes a deep, deep breath.

Lets it out. Takes another one.

“Time,” Glenn says.

The walkie buzzes.

“So, Maggie, Glenn,” the homunculus says, almost charmingly. “Have you considered my generous offer?”

Daryl looks at Glenn, but Glenn just looks back at him with a shrug. _Your call_.

Maggie and Stook are radio silent, too. Daryl’s leading this operation, so it looks like they’ve all decided to let him speak for them.

Daryl swallows. That... seems like a helluvva lot of pressure, right about now.

He really wishes Rick were here. He’d be really good at this part.

“They ain’t gonna do it, asshole,” Daryl says into the mic.

There’s a pause.

“Put Glenn on,” it commands in a low voice. “And do it _now_.”

Daryl considers that for a half a second, if only at the thought of Glenn being his optimistic, peace-loving self and pissing the thing off royally. “Nah. Yer stuck with me.”

The once calm and carefully lilted voice has gone nearly feral with rage, like if an order isn’t followed, it’ll end in inescapably horrific carnage. Which, yeah, that’s probably literal.

“I _said_ ,” the homunculus seethes, “ _Put Glenn on – NOW_!”

Daryl brings the walkie up to his mouth with a hot word on his tongue.

Hesitates.

This probably isn’t a good idea. Rick definitely wouldn’t choose to do this. It’s illogical, unpredictable, and it only feeds the flames of violent psychopathic rage that’s hellbent on killing them anyway... Yeah, not smart.

But then again, Daryl’s never been too smart.

“Fuck you, dickwad,” Daryl snarls into the walkie.

There’s an aborted click in response – surprise, maybe? Finger slipping off the transmitter button? – and the floor underneath them shudders as another sudden, brutal shockwave passes through the building.

If he had to guess, Dickwad probably just sucker-punched the floor. Or maybe the wall. Maybe it crushed the walkie-talkie under its foot, who knows. This guy’s starting to make Daryl’s dad look like a goddamn level-headed, sane human being.

Then there are pounding footsteps, steps that shake the floor with every heavy impact.

Daryl hollers, both at Glenn and through the walkie, over the din – “’S coming – get ready!”

The steps get louder and louder – _shit_ , Daryl thinks. It’s coming their way. Like it already knew where they were.

Then an enormous shadow fills up the far wall at the end of the hallway, and Daryl’s mind goes blank.

Not blank, exactly.

It’s like, every little process and every little thought in his head has suddenly ground to a halt. Gone still, turned off, shut down. Except for that one part, the part that keeps his finger primed on the trigger, keeps his ears attuned to every shift and vibration in the air, keeps his eyes sharp and focused. The one that screams, somewhere in the back of his mind, _survive, survive, survive_.

Then the steps slow down, almost to an easy stroll, as the shadow grows in detail. Daryl can see the outline of its shoulders, the whorls of its ears, the twitches of its massive fingers.

The message is clear. It’s here, and it’s going to leech every drop of fear out of them that it possibly can.

Then it turns the corner, and the hairs on the back of Daryl’s neck stand up.

He’d only seen snatches of the homunculus when they were driving for their lives – how massive its form was, how fast it ran, how its body looked cobbled together. Now he can see, in person, every feature, every horrifying characteristic that makes it up. The sharp teeth, the bloodshot, bulging eye set next to a gaping, burning socket still stuck with Daryl’s knife and paper wards. The way its stitched-together shoulders hunch over so its head doesn’t brush the ceiling, the way its remaining arm is too long for its body, its girth lurching, spilling into the thin space of the hallway like a hurricane. The way it drags itself forward, limping on its bloodied stump as if it doesn’t give a shit about whether or not it’s missing a foot, shattering tiny bones with a crunch with every step.

But none of that can compete with what Daryl sees on its face.

No, because on top of all of that –

It’s –

It’s _grinning_ , a mad, enraged gleam in its one eye.

“Not so rude now,” it notes, voice sharp and rough like shattered glass, watching every twitch of Daryl’s muscles. “Why, Daryl, why so quiet, all of a sudden?” It chuckles to itself. It’s a horrible sound, grating, grinding.

Daryl says nothing. Just keeps his aim trained on the thing with his crossbow, and backs up a step for every one the homunculus takes.

“What happened, cat got your tongue?” It widens its strides, making Daryl pick up the pace a little. It seems to be losing patience, and the angry edge to its tone is starting to leak out. It wants banter, it wants fear, and it’s not getting enough from him.

Daryl gauges the distance, takes five more careful steps back.

And it lunges.

“Now, Glenn!” Daryl shouts.

Glenn sets it off, and a wide wire lasso falls from the ceiling, glowing blue, and tightens around the homunculus, tighter and tighter –

But shit, it knew this was coming, because of what happened with Andrea and Morgan, because it leaps out of the way with a cruel twist to its mouth, like it knows that that’s their only real threat against it. Advances on Daryl again, cruel smirk growing exponentially.

Well, goddammit, even if the trap didn’t work and they’re both dead, Daryl sure as hell isn’t going to just roll over and die like a goddamn dog.

Daryl breathes, pulls the trigger.

A laced arrow thunks into its remaining eye.

The homunculus roars, reeling backwards in pain as its eye burns into nothing. The arrow stays firmly stuck in there, even though its massive hand comes up and tries to wrench it out. It’s like it’s been cemented there.

Good ol’ Bob Stookey.

Daryl grabs another arrow and hastens to nock it, even though his fingers seem blunt and clumsy. As many as he can get in, the better.

He shoots, eliciting another inhuman roar. This time, it hits its good shoulder.

“I’ll tear you apart,” it bellows, and lunges in Daryl’s direction again. “I may not be able to _see_ you – ”

Daryl narrowly evades its outreaching hands, dodging to the side while reloading.

“ – but I can _hear_ you, I can _smell_ you, and I will _find_ you!”

He comes up on two feet and shoots it again in its good leg. Another roar.

“And when I do,” it seethes, “I will make you _rue the day you were born_. I will tear _bits_ off you, and _eat_ them, _piece_ by _piece_ , while you’re _still breathing_. While you _watch_.”

Daryl fumbles for the next arrow, backing all the way up into the wall at the end of the hallway, before realizing, shit.

He’s all outta arrows.

“Shit,” he breathes, sliding down the wall until he hits the ground, knees shaking, and the homunculus lunges for him, one last time.

He closes his eyes, and thinks of Rick. The way he smiles. The way he sings. The way he’d touched Daryl that time in the kitchen, the way he circled his thumb, the way he’d brushed Daryl’s skin, like he was something precious. Something loved.

Then the homunculus chokes, a horrific, meaty sound, and a wash of blood hits Daryl in the face. He splutters, wiping it away with the back of his forearm.

Then Daryl’s eyes pop open.

He sees the decapitated head of the homunculus, lolling on the ground, still hissing smoke from its neck.

He directs his gaze upwards, past the rest of the lifeless, patched-together body, and –

And –

And Glenn is standing there, glowing blue wire in his hands, blood spattered all over his white T-shirt.

“Hey,” Glenn says nonchalantly. “You okay?”


	6. Elysium

Daryl makes a note to thank both Bob Stookey and Morgan for letting Maggie and Glenn join their ragtag little group, despite his initial misgivings. Like, a huge thank you. A gift-basket worthy thank you. A thirty dollar bottle of wine kind of thank you.

He still kind of can’t believe what’s happened. He’s vaguely aware that he’s in shock, hugging his knees and shaking all over, and that he’s sort of staring at Glenn with big bug-eyed abandon from a quiet corner.

Because, whoa. C’mon.

Who knew this cute little Korean baker had the pure nerve to do something as badass as that? Behead a monster with only his bare hands and a wire? In-fucking-credible.

Twenty feet away, Glenn blushes and puts a nervous hand behind his neck as Maggie flirts like the hellion she is. Not even ten minutes ago, though, he’d stood there cool as a goddamn cucumber and asked how Daryl was doing after sawing through the homunculus’ goddamn neck.

Daryl shakes his head.

In. Fucking. Credible.

-

A blur of time goes by, where Glenn is calmly saying things at him, and Daryl nods along like he understands – and maybe he does, at the time, but fuck if he can remember shit of what they talk about.

-

When Daryl comes back to himself, he stands up from his quiet corner and stretches his stiffened legs. There's still dried blood still splattered all over him like a paintball fight gone wrong. He sighs, because it's the second time today he's had to scrub a ton of blood off his skin and he hates the shitty soap they've got in the hospital bathroom. Smells like flowery poison.

Glenn sees him before Daryl gets all the way over to him and Maggie, and smiles.

"Hey Daryl. You doing all right?"

"Yeah," Daryl says. "Just gotta get all this -" he gestures across himself to all the stains - "cleaned offa me. So. Gonna take a minute. You got this?"

"We got this," Glenn says, glancing at Maggie.

She grins back. "Yeah, we do." She sniffs at Daryl like she's annoyed he's still there. "You gonna stick around, or are we gonna get to make out a lil?" Glenn blushes beet red, which makes Maggie's eyes spark with mischief.

Daryl rolls his eyes. "I'm goin, I'm goin. Where's Spook?"

"He's, uh," Glenn hesitates. "Taking care of the body," he finishes in an undertone. "That's what he said, anyway. We helped him carry the, uh, _pieces_ outside. Think he's burning them. Not sure though."

"Thanks."

Daryl leaves them to their make out session and follows the signs to the restrooms.

The bathroom sink he's in front of is clean, and it makes him feel bad to turn the dial to turn on the water. His bloody fingers get sticky goop on it. He resolves to clean that off after he's done with the rest of it.

It takes a long, long time. From his head to his boots, he's covered in the stuff. He'd thought he could never get grossed out again after all that he'd seen, but he was wrong. All this blood and gunk from that fucker that’s all over him, bits of flesh and hair and all, is grosser than the undead popping out of the goddamn ground. He's pretty sure some of it's actually got formaldehyde in it, too, and that's why it smells so goddamn bad.

There's some in his hair that's sticky and caked in, which he only notices when he glances up at the mirror. He sighs. He sticks his whole head under the sink, closes his eyes, and lets the water cascade over his crest until every last drop and every last chunk of flesh has been swept away down the drain.

He steps back and looks at himself more closely in the mirror. Yeah, his clothes are still stained to hell, and he's still kind of a mess with bruises and sore spots all over. Yeah, he's more tired than he's ever been and every muscle is so overworked it hurts to breathe.

But he's still here, alive and whole and breathing deep.

He’d never thought he’d get this far, after he was shrunk down to mouse size. Thought he’d die painfully in the jaws of some animal, or just get squished accidentally. Then the smiling man and the homunculus came to light, and he’d known for a fact he was dying bloody and awful and with a weapon in his hand.

But he hadn’t.

And now...

Now all that's left is details, just the little things he has to take care of, and then he can get on with the important stuff.

Stuff like living.

He looks at his eyes in the mirror, and thinks about what he sees in them. There’s something there, something almost visceral in its intensity, and he’s not sure what it is, exactly.

Could be hope.

-

Stook comes back inside some time after that. He’s wiping his hands on a rag, and strongly smells like gasoline.

When Glenn asks him about it in a subdued tone, all he says is, “’S done,” and leaves it at that.

Then Stook turns to Daryl and says, “Don’t know how y’all pulled it off, but,” he laughs. “First town I been in, this kinda thing happened, and damn near everybody involved got outta it alive.”

Daryl thinks about all the other people that weren’t involved, that didn’t know enough to stay in their houses and got their life torn out of their throats, that are probably still littered in the streets like trash, and doesn’t say anything. He just shrugs. Could be worse, he knows that much. “Jus’ lucky, I guess.”

“More’n that,” Stookey disagrees. He regards Daryl with a peculiar look, just for a moment. Before Daryl can even start to categorize it, it’s gone. “Much more.”

Then he smiles, and when Bob Stookey breaks out into a full smile, the rest of the world smiles with him.

“Let’s go find the Sheriff and his deputies,” he says, and his voice is so pointed and knowing – almost _too_ knowing, actually; does Stookey have mind-mojo or something? – that it settles the last of Daryl’s lingering fears.

-

The three amigos are still kicking, all right.

He finds Andrea and Morgan first, barricaded behind the double doors up one of the flights of stairs. It’s the one that was closest to their hideout in the janitor’s closet next to their gator trap – Andrea is bleeding, and from the stains on her pants leg, kinda bad.

“Got clipped,” she explains, holding up her injured leg for examination. “Diving through the door. Damn near got me. But I’ll be fine.”

Daryl studies it, and yeah, Morgan’s already got her leg tied off and elevated, and the bleeding is only a trickle.

He shrugs. “Good thing we already at the hospital.”

Andrea laughs, and it comes out as a short burst of a bark. “Damn right,” she says.  

“Y’all find that damn fool Martinez?” Morgan cuts in.

Daryl shakes his head. “Not yet. ’Bout to go down that a ways, check where he mighta ended up.”

“’M goin’ with ya,” Morgan says, steely in a way that brooks no argument.

“O...kay,” Daryl says as Morgan brusquely brushes past him, stomping down the hall in search for their latest missing person.

Andrea leans in conspiratorially towards Daryl, and whispers, “Don’t let his angry face fool you. He’s got a soft spot for Cesar.”

“Huh.” Daryl watches Morgan go, and sees something nervous, almost, in the slope of his shoulders.

“’S why he ain’t been fired yet, the lazy loudmouth,” Andrea says, but she’s smiling, and Daryl thinks maybe Morgan’s not the only one with a Cesar Martinez-shaped soft spot. “Go on, get outta here, don’t look at me like that.”

-

Kind of makes it even funnier, when he sees Martinez clinging to an uncomfortable Morgan like a limpet, saying things like, “I thought y’all was _dead_ , man,” and “Love you, boss, you hard-ass motherfucker,” while blubbering.

“Shut your ass up,” Morgan threatens Daryl when he accidentally lets out a puff of laughter.

“ _Yo_ , Daryl!” Cesar exclaims.

Daryl doesn’t see it coming. All of a sudden, Cesar’s just _there_. Clinging to him. Like a limpet.

“Bro, we did it,” Cesar sniffles into his shoulder. “We did it – we lived, dog. We’re _alive_ . Y’know? _Alive_. Still kicking. Can’t believe it, dude. When I saw the look on that shitstain’s face, man... Aw man, bro, the look on its face, man – I mean, shit. An’ we’re still – I mean, shit, bro, y’know? Shit.”

“Yup,” Daryl says uncomfortably, and sort of... pats at him.

That seems to be enough for Cesar to withdraw. Within a couple seconds, he regroups and refocuses his limpet efforts back on Morgan, who just sighs minutely and lets it happen.

Thank fuck. Daryl escapes before he can be hugged again.

-

They decide as a group to let the police officers take care of informing the people upstairs that the area is secure. Morgan takes point, with Cesar following behind with a strut in his step. So it’s just Andrea, Stookey, Daryl, Maggie, Glenn, and a wounded Andrea down here on the first floor, watching the stairwell closest to them for trickles of the crowd.

People are still terrified, though, and Daryl realizes they could feel the quakes the homunculus rippled through the building, could hear its roars, and even the most staunch nonbelievers must feel in their bones that something awful beyond comprehension happened here, just now. The opened double doors of the staircase stay empty for some time, no doubt because of that. Long enough that it starts to get uncomfortable for them, standing in these empty halls.

Finally, finally, there are tentative footsteps. And there’s Tyreese, at the top of the stairs. Clenching the bag Stookey gave him full of powdered aconite like it’s a lifeline.

“Hey,” he says, voice deep and smooth, not shaky at all, and comes down the stairs, one step at a time.

“Heard it was safe down here,” he says. “That right?”

“Yessir, safe as could be,” Stookey replies with a crinkling smile.

Tyreese smiles back. “Good, that’s good.” He holds up the bag of aconite. “Guess I won’t be needin’ this no more.”

Stookey accepts it, and slips it back into his pocket. “Thank you kindly.”

Tyreese nods and heads back up.

Maybe it’s because they see Tyreese come back, maybe it’s because the message from the officers took some time to sink in, but... People start coming down, after that. Sounds start to fill up the halls again, footsteps and chatter and brushes of clothes.

It’s like the hospital’s come back to life again, almost. Daryl lets the sounds wash over him, and it feels like everything is slowly shifting back to normal. Thank god.

-

Andrea gets herself a wheelchair, or maybe gets a nurse to get her one, and rolls over to a dazed Daryl like a woman on a mission.

“Daryl,” she snaps, bumping him painfully in the shin. Clearly, she’s getting crabby. And pretty dangerous in that thing, because _fuck_ , that hurts.

“ _Ow_ , the fuck,” Daryl complains.

“Go throw the breakers for the elevators. Get ‘em workin’ again.”

Oh. Daryl guesses with that leg wound, Andrea can’t walk up the stairs. Must want the elevator to find her wife.

Her _wife_ –

Daryl fully blinks back to himself, suddenly feeling stone cold sober, realizing he’s been under another in-shock haze this whole time. Maybe not as bad as it was when he was curled up in the fetal position, yeah, but still. Not totally with it, because he’s only just remembered that he completely, utterly, _desperately_ needs to see Rick.

When Daryl doesn’t respond, she rolls her eyes. “The breakers. Turn ‘em on. Just go down the main hall and past the cafeteria until you hit the custodial staff offices. The breaker box is in there, and the right ones are labeled.”

Daryl nods. “You wanna see yer wife, I get it,” he says, and really means it, because damn, how much shock did he have to shake off before he remembered that Rick was up there, sleeping in his medically induced coma?

He shakes his head and jogs down the hall, between clusters of people that are staring slack-jawed at the massive craters left there, jagged wounds crisscrossing around some of the walls and floors like geyser blood spatters. A couple more halls and a turn, and Daryl finds his way to the right place. He rummages around for a key to the box, and turns one up in a desk drawer. Then he throws the breakers like Andrea wanted, lets her know, and then heads straight up in the nearest elevator across from her to the third floor.

He sees snatches of familiar faces in the rustling crowd of people every once in a while. T-dog, Phillips and Parsons, and Su, to name a few. The ones he knows wave at him as he goes by, and he makes half-assed, half-aborted motions back as he shuffles on, so they don’t get any ideas about coming over to stop and talk. Honestly, he’s too focused on getting to where he needs to be to focus on it too much. Zigzagging against the grain through the slowly filing masses is turning out to be a real bitch.

When he finally gets to the right room, Rick is there, sleeping just as peacefully as he was before Daryl went to war with a monster and somehow came out the other side. He didn’t think he’d ever see Rick again, but here he is. He’s beautiful, more beautiful than anything Daryl’s ever seen, and completely alive. Something high-strung and alarmed in Daryl’s chest finally fully relaxes.

Daryl sits by his bedside, curls all his shaky fingers around Rick’s, presses his forehead to the back of Rick’s hand, and breathes.

-

The world turns, as it always does, even as Daryl and Rick in their little hospital room seem to be undergoing their own orbit. Nurses change shifts, doctors inspect, visitors hurry by, and Daryl lays there, head on Rick’s hand.

-

The doctors decide to go way down on the sedatives, enough to let Rick wake up. They decide this less than twenty-four hours after Daryl and Glenn take on the homunculus. To Daryl, every good thing that’s happened since then is a revelation. This one, so far, takes the cake.

It takes time for the meds to wear off, though, and even then, it takes even longer for Rick to make his way out of sleep.

Still, the time flies by, especially for someone whose life was once centered on hunting wild animals. And hey, it’s not like Daryl doesn’t have anything pretty to look at while he waits.

-

When Rick does wake up, his eyes are foggy and unfocused for less than a millisecond before they sharpen and clear. They instantly snap on to Daryl like they never lost track of him, and they shine, half shocked disbelief, half blinding hope.

Daryl smiles, and gives him a nod. Lets everything that happened in between Rick passing out and waking up get summed up in one look.

Rick smiles back. Tears crowd at the edges of his eyes, and his grin stretches so wide, it forces a few to spill over.

It makes Daryl feel funny inside, just to see Rick looking like that.

Happy.

-

So, it turns out Rick isn’t much for talking yet, seeing as he did just have open surgery on his neck. Apparently some of his vocal cords were a little damaged and repaired on the table, which they find out after Rick gets in major trouble for clearing his throat with what sounded, terrifyingly enough, like a death rattle.

“You wait to talk until you’re allowed,” Phillips orders Rick sternly. “No talking ‘til then. Use a notepad. Pen and paper. No humming, coughing, anything. Not even mouthing words, because that can sometimes make your cords vibrate out of habit. Use your throat for eating and drinking, that’s it, for the next few days. You’re on total voice rest.”

“Remember, you have it easy,” Parsons chimes in. “You only had minimal damage to your larynx. People who have laryngectomies are on total voice rest for two whole weeks, and you only need to stay quiet for one.”

Rick nods, looking contrite.

“Other than that, it’s looking good. Your sternocleidomastoid, thyrohyoid, and omohyoid muscles have all knitted back together after their sutures, the ligation patch on your anterior artery is holding, and there have been no hematomas or abscesses formed around the wound. The healing process is moving ahead faster than we thought it would. You should be released from the hospital in a few days, right around the time Doctor Harrison ends your voice rest.”

“That’s awful fast,” Daryl comments.

“It is,” Phillips agrees. “The surgery went perfectly, and the healing is faster than we anticipated. But still, you’ll need to come in for some physical therapy, mostly voice therapy, for a few weeks until the wound heals enough to no longer impact your day-to-day functioning.”

Daryl watches Rick for a nod, and then says, “Sure, that ain’t a problem.”

And, considering all the other shit they've been through just to get here, it really ain't. Yeah, it sucks for a while, and Rick has to catch himself almost constantly from making any sounds whatsoever, but hey. Anything’s easier than killing monsters.

-

T-dog comes by, of course. He's gonna be heading Rick’s physical therapy when he heals up enough, and checks off things on his lil chart.

“You been told what voice rest means?” He asks near the end.

Rick nods.

“Good, I won't have to go over the fact that if you even try to use your vocal cords for the next seven days, you'll get thrown in rehab by yours truly until the doctors deem you fully fit,” T-dog threatens with a violent cut of his pen down the page.

Rick visibly gulps, and nods again.

“We got it,” Daryl interjects. “We a’ready got the third degree, okay.”

“Hm. Well.” T-dog closes his medical file. “Best watch him and his vocal cords like a hawk, D. Payback for when he was doin’ your PT.”

Daryl smirks at Rick, who just rolls his eyes.

“You heard ‘im,” Daryl says loftily. “‘S fer your own good.”

Rick makes a face, and there’s clearly some zinger he’s got on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to roll off, but somehow, heroically, he holds it in.

The hardest times are after a lull, when Rick’s forgotten he’s not supposed to speak and his mouth opens by force of habit. Daryl almost forgets during these moments, too, but thankfully they manage to catch it before damage is done. For the most part.

Daryl has a feeling that after a few more days go by of this voice rest thing, there won’t be enough time in the day for all the words Rick’ll wanna say afterwards.

One of the nurses leaves a whiteboard and an erasable marker on Rick’s bedside. It helps. Rick scribbles things down so fast sometimes it’s hard to read what he writes, like his thoughts are going too fast for his hand to capture in time, and sometimes he has to underline words to really get his sarcastic little points across, but it works well enough.

Glenn and Maggie come to visit when Rick is especially keen on drawing funny little illustrations on the edges of his whiteboard instead of writing words, and having Daryl play hangman to guess what they are. Daryl usually gets them wrong the first couple times - hey, they can be complex little plays on words! Rick is a total smartass - but it’s a good way to pass the time. And Rick is surprisingly good at it.

This illustration is a little ghost in a worn out suit jacket, screaming ‘boo!’ and wearing a bracelet. It looks like there’s two beads or something strung on it, and it’s two words, six and seven letters each -

Oh.

“Spooky Stookey,” Daryl guesses.

Rick nods, and Daryl grins, delighted. First try.

“Another one,” Daryl says.

Rick smiles warmly at him, then starts erasing Spooky Stookey. There’s a knock on the door, and in come Maggie and Glenn. “Hi, y’all,” Maggie says cheerfully. “How we doin? Rick?”

Rick waves, but keeps his mouth shut. He points at the dressing on his neck, then at his mouth.

“‘S on voice rest,” Daryl explains. “Not allowed t’ talk yet.”

“Oh,” Maggie says, a little crestfallen. “Okay. But other than that, y’all’re doin’ well?”

Rick smiles. _YES_ , he writes in all caps next to his little hangman’s noose. _YOU?_ Rick’s eyes flicker down to where Glenn and Maggie’s hands are joined together, and raises his eyebrows suggestively.

Daryl wolf-whistles. “Look at that,” he says. “We ain’t the town lovebirds anymore, Rick.”

He snickers at Glenn’s full-on blush.

 _NO WE AIN’T_ , Rick writes with a toothy smile.

Daryl doesn’t feel bad about Glenn’s embarrassed, beet red face, because hey, both Maggie and Glenn did the same damn thing to him that day in the restaurant. Had him blushing like a goddamn tomato. All’s fair, right?

Maggie doesn’t seem to get embarrassed at all, judging by her grin. Seems she awfully likes the way Glenn gets embarrassed, though, seeing the way she’s looking at him.

“Damn right you ain’t,” she declares, and she smacks a kiss on Glenn’s red cheek. A goofy smile breaks out on his face.

They’re going on that date Glenn promised to ask Maggie on, wanted to check up on Rick and the others in care first. Turns out, most everybody survived that made it to the hospital. A few died on the operating table or in the ambulances, but really, the only deaths were the people the homunculus ripped apart in the streets.

“How many, round about?” Daryl asks.

Maggie hems. “All ‘n all, I think the death toll is ‘round forty or fifty. Sheriff’ll be in later, ask him fer the exact count.”

Daryl cocks his head to the side. “Only fifty? Seems low.” It’d seemed higher, the way the blood coated the earth like a thin film and the bodies had covered the streets like they were in a goddamn war movie.

“Yeah,” Glenn agrees. “But everyone was safe in the town’s buildings after you put up your protective charms, and once people knew something was happening, inside was the first place they went. ”

“Hmm.” That’s good. Sounds like Rick and him actually managed to accomplish something after all. Still, those fifty-odd people…

“Can’t get yerself bogged down in that,” Maggie says seriously. “I can see you thinkin’ from here, an’ there ain’t no use in it. You stopped what you could, and that’s enough. ‘S gotta be enough, ‘gainst a monster like that.”

Daryl dismisses that, because no matter what people say, it doesn’t change the fact that people died cuz of him; but later… later, he’ll wonder if that’s true.

They leave to go on their date - Glenn’s taking Maggie somewhere casual and fun, some country dancing thing - and even well after they’ve been gone, Rick’s still all smiles. Daryl realizes with a start that he’s been smiling, too. He’s usually more aware of his expressions, keeps a tighter lid on things, but seems like it’s all leaking out lately.

“Those two got a whole lotta something,” Daryl says. “Somethin’ makes everyone ‘round them smile, don’t know what it is.”

Rick nods, and jots something down on his whiteboard. Daryl leans in to look.

 _Both sweeter than pie, purer than gold, and spilling over with puppy love for each other_ , it says. _Little different from the ingredients the smiling man used to get his face stuck like that, I wager._

Daryl snorts.

Rick’s got a smirk on his face, too, but then it fades into something a little more serious. Pensive.  

_Why do you think he did that to his face?_

He blinks. “The smiling man?”

Rick nods.

“You think he did it on purpose? To himself? The smiling?”

Rick shrugs. _Why would he keep it that way, if it wasn’t on purpose?_

Daryl hums. “Thought maybe it had somethin’ to do with the ‘munculus.”

Rick circles the _Why_.

“Dunno.” Daryl chews on his lip. “Hell, maybe it didn’t have control over the smiling.”

Rick makes a face at that. _Don’t think so_ , he writes. _Think magic did that, and magic’s on purpose_.

“Not always,” Daryl counters. “Magic ain’t so easy to control sometimes, an’ hell, we don’t know how the smiling man got to be how he was inna first place. Coulda been a parta that.”

Rick frowns, and starts writing a goddamn essay on his little board.

Daryl sighs. Here we go.

When he’s done, Rick hands Daryl the board with a silent huff.

It reads: _The thing could levitate, Daryl. And was damn near invisible to everyone but us and Stookey. If it had that kind of know-how, why wouldn’t it be able to change back its face? It had to have been keeping it like that on purpose. It couldn’t have been anything but magic, and what else would have made it happen but the smiling man? It just doesn’t make sense unless you assume the smiling man did it on purpose to himself._

Daryl hums. “But it was invisible. Ain’t nobody there for it t’ smile at.”

Rick concedes that point with a tilt of his head.

“Well, not nobody. There was us, and the homunculus,” Daryl says, slowly slotting thoughts together like puzzle pieces. “Mostly the homunculus. An’ if it didn’t want the ‘munculus to see anything but a smile…” He shivers, remembering the way the homunculus had laughed, cold enough to send a chill up his spine. “Must’ve been somethin’ the ‘munculus wanted to see. That thing was in charge, no doubt about it.”

Rick nods emphatically. _But why would it want to see the other one smiling?_

Daryl shudders. “You didn’t hear it talking to us, Rick,” he says lowly, looking at the floor. “It… had this way of laughin’, of… I don’t know. Bantering. Playin’ with words.” He goes quiet for a moment. “Got angry when we didn’t play along.”

He looks back up and Rick is staring at him. He feels a little self-conscious at the narrow-focused scrutiny. “What?”

Rick shakes his head. _Nothing_ . _You hungry?_

That’s probably bullshit - there’s definitely something going on in that big brain of his - but Daryl lets it slide and goes along with the subject change. It’s easier. His whole body relaxes a little bit, and he tries to cast the thoughts of chilling laughter out of his mind for a while.

-

Sheriff and his goons come by together and leave flowers. Rick is asleep when they come, so Daryl has to tough it out by himself and socialize. They say they’ll come back later when he’s awake and rush off pretty quick, because according to Morgan, they’ve got “a shit sandwich to eat with the feds.”

Apparently there’s some big thing going down with local and federal law enforcement in their little town, as far as Daryl can figure. He’s not surprised, given the sheer enormity of the shit-show that just went down. Before they go, Morgan shoves their cover story they’ve concocted down Daryl’s throat, just in case.

-

Surprisingly enough, it comes in handy.

Some suits show up outside Rick’s hospital door asking questions. They both have guns strapped to their belts. They’re both carrying Smith & Wesson’s, like two peas in a pod.

“Could we step in and ask you gentlemen some questions?” The taller one asks. His voice isn’t southern; more like Glenn’s accent. Midwest, then, or maybe East Coast.

The shorter one, a woman, says, “It’ll only take a minute of your time.”

Daryl glances at Rick, who gives a minute shrug with an almost careless lift of one shoulder.

“Sure,” Daryl says. “But he ain’t allowed t’ talk, so you’ll be talkin’ with me. He can write, if he wants.”

“That’s fine,” the lady agrees. “Agent Scully. And this is Agent Mulder.” They both flip out their FBI badges in sync.

“‘M Daryl. An’ this’s Rick.” Daryl always thought it’d be a little cooler and a lot less awkward than it is, but man, it’s weird trying to peer at a person’s badge just to check if they are who they say they are. “What’re yer questions?”

Mulder turns all his attention towards him, and the level of focus is on par with Rick’s. “You see anything… _strange_ happen, these past few days?”

This guy’s clearly close to sniffing something out. Daryl doesn’t want to find out what happens if he finds the truth.

“Nah,” Daryl dismisses. “Other than the massive, drugged-up serial killer tryna kill us, nah, nothing.”

Rick huffs a silent laugh.

“So you saw him,” Scully says. “How would you describe him?”

Daryl shoots a wry look at her. “Enormous. Scary as hell. Ugly as fuck. And strong as a goddamn ox.”

“How close to him did you get? Did you get a good look at him?”

Daryl bites the inside of his cheek, and remembers, just for a second, the thing closing in on him and the way his eyes snapped shut just as it -

“Daryl,” Scully says softly. “You okay? We could do this another time if you - ”

“‘M fine,” Daryl says a little too loudly. “Got close enough. Big eyeful. Why?”

“Well, we’re looking for him,” Scully says frankly. “Haven’t found a body, and have reason to believe he’s still alive somewhere. We just need more information to track him down.”

Daryl shakes his head. “Won’t get nowhere with that,” he warns.

“Why not?” asks Mulder curiously.

Well, Daryl wants to say Stookey burned the body to kingdom come, already, but he’s sure as hell not gonna. Daryl scrambles to come up with something a little less truthful. “Cuz that thing was smarter than hell, and if he’s gone, he’ll stay gone.”

“We can try our best to find him anyway,” Mulder offers. “You know, we may not be serial killers, but we’ve found out our fair share of weird.”

Not _this_ weird, Daryl thinks to himself. “Whatever. You need a statement or somethin’?”

They do, and so that’s how Daryl ends up giving them an extremely detailed, extremely false account of all the homunculus’ various facial features.

They leave after that, though Mulder gives Daryl a mildly suspicious lingering look as they go.

“Think he knows we’re full of shit,” Daryl tells Rick once he’s heard both their footsteps fade into nothing.

 _Doesn’t matter_ , Rick writes. _What are they gonna do, even if they figure it all out?_

The answer is pretty much nothing, in Daryl’s mind.

-

T-dog starts up a rigorous regimen of PT for the muscles in Rick’s neck and shoulder. There’s some pain, which was expected, but the surgery is holding up well enough that Rick’s making some real progress. Hell, he can reach behind his back with that arm now.

T says there’s only a couple more days left of voice rest, which, thank god. Daryl’s really starting to miss that soft Georgia drawl.

In the meantime, between T’s appointments, visitors popping in, and the doctor keeping tabs on Rick’s wound, nurses check up on them constantly. The whole hospital is running around like a chicken with its head cut off, and most every nurse and doctor and anything else employed by the hospital is running on fumes from how much overtime they’re clocking. Sometimes it feels like they can’t get a moment alone, which drives Daryl out of the room and into the hallways to roam.

There’s construction going on in some of the first floor hallways, which doesn’t surprise Daryl one bit when he’s down there hanging out by the vending machines.

The construction workers look up at the scarred ceiling with awe as Daryl passes by, and he doesn’t even consider telling them what actually happened. No matter how many mystified comments he catches at the corners of his hearing.

They’re better off not knowing a damn thing. Not that they’d believe him, anyway; they’re from some company that’s from out of town. Didn’t see a damn thing.

-

Before they know it, a week’s gone by, and Rick’s allowed to talk again.

“Do it gradually,” warn the nurses. “Start with humming, and build your way up to words. Try shorter sentences first. Stop talking if it starts to hurt, and wait until later to start up again.”

Rick nods, a huge shit-eating grin on his face. Daryl shakes his head. Whoo boy. Now that Rick is gonna be able to talk again, he’s not gonna be able to shut up.

So Rick hums and hums, little uh-uh’s and uh-huh’s at first, then longer, more thoughtful hums. Daryl gets used to the odd little background noise of Rick humming along to the television commercial jingles as he goes through another magazine full of pictures of mountains and rolling hills.

-

“Daryl.”

Daryl shoots up out of his sleepy stupor, where he’s been listing to the side in an uncomfortable plastic chair. Must’ve fallen asleep listening to Rick humming.

“What?” Daryl asks reflexively.

Then his brain comes online, and his head swings to look at Rick.

“Did you just,” he says disbelievingly.

“Daryl,” Rick croaks again proudly.

“Rick,” Daryl says excitedly. “Rick, this’s great! Does yer throat hurt, or - ”

“No,” Rick says. “Gotta… say somethin’.”

Daryl nods his head up and down like some sort of bobble head toy. “A’right, sure, yeah.”

“Wanted t’ say.” Rick pauses for a breath. “Fer awhile.”

“Bet you have,” Daryl snorts. Lots of things he’s been wanting to say ever since his voice got put on moratorium.

Then, Rick takes a deep breath.

“We got time, now. So.” He pauses. “Best thing to. Ever happen t’ me was. You.”

Daryl’s thoughts don’t screech to a halt. No. It’s more like his derailed thoughts go at breakneck speed, spectacularly spiraling into a rolling crash. Yeah, that sounds more like it.

“You - ” Daryl cuts himself off. And stares.

And stares.

 _Me?_ Daryl thinks to himself wonderingly.

Rick’s breathing picks up. “You - ?” he asks, almost timidly.

That slight pitch of insecurity in Rick’s weak, croaky voice has got Daryl moving quicker than hell - he’s jumping out of his chair and ignoring all the odd pains in his lower back before you could say Jack Robinson.

He flings himself forward, catches Rick’s jaw with one hand, and says, “Hey.” He meets Rick’s eyes. “Yer the best goddamn thing this piece of shit redneck has ever seen.”

Rick frowns. “Not shit,” Rick argues.

Daryl huffs. Figures Rick would focus in on that part. “Jus’ tellin’ it like it is.”

“ _Not_ ,” Rick punctuates. He lifts his hand and catches Daryl’s jaw, gently sliding into a mirror image reflection of Daryl. In that moment, Daryl feels the light brush of Rick’s stubble under his palm as well as the rough glide of calluses of Rick’s fingers on his own jaw. The two spots where they’re touching are electric, cool and sweet, and the pure sensory overload has Daryl’s heart melting. Rick’s eyes soften. “Not.”

“Not. Okay,” Daryl grumbles half-heartedly. “I gotcha. I’m ‘not’.”

Rick snickers, and finally pulls his hand away. After a moment, Daryl does too. He wishes it’d lasted a little longer, but he knows better than to hold on too long and end up losing what you had in the first place. Better to let it go slow, steady.

Daryl stands up and stretches. “Wanna watch some shitty TV?” he asks.

Rick nods, grinning. “Dr. Phil,” he suggests with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Daryl groans. “Ugh, fine,” he says as he flops back down with the remote in his hand. “Let’s see ‘f I can find the damn thing.”

-

Morgan and the deputies visit after the feds and their shit sandwich is over and done with. Rick’s just had a killer PT session with T-dog, though, so he’s a little out of it when they stop by.

“Hey, Sheriff,” Rick says tiredly. “Harrison, Martinez.”

“Rick, my man, what’s up!”

“Hey, Grimes.”

“Deputy,” Morgan says. “How you holdin’ up, Grimes?”

“Well, can’t complain,” Rick offers.

Morgan snorts. “How d’you figure? A goddamn monster almost killed you, boy.”

Rick smiles, and Daryl smiles back. “But it didn’t. An’ I got my voice back. And I got Daryl. So. Can’t complain.”

“Goddamn optimists,” Morgan mutters. “So, when you gonna be back on the job? I got a deputy desk needs filling.”

“Get released today. Least three weeks ‘til I’m gonna be cleared for duty, though.”

“Good. Job’ll be waiting for you when you once you decide to pick up your lazy ass.”

“Thanks, Morgan.”

Morgan harrumphs and crosses his arms, as if to say that if he’d wanted Rick’s thanks, he’d have asked for it, and walks out.

“That’s Sheriff’s way of sayin’ yer welcome,” Andrea says, amused. She’s on crutches now instead of in the chair, and moving around pretty quick from what Daryl can see. She leans onto one of her crutches and studies Rick. “You look like shit, Grimes.”

“Thanks, Harrison.”

“Glad you didn’t die, asshole.”

“Thanks, Harrison,” Rick repeats. Rick’s lips are twitching up into a smile despite his greatest efforts.

“Hey, man, Andrea, tell ‘im that thing you said,” Martinez insists. “Go on, tell ‘im.”

Harrison sighs and tips her head back. “Ugh, fine.” She glares at Rick and says, “This department needs Rick Grimes, so hurry the hell up and get better.”

Martinez grins. “Yeah, that thing.” He claps Harrison on the back and leans in. “Hey, yo, Rick, my man. We did it. Take some sweet down time, and I’m sure you’re gonna get right back to bein’ the hardass deputy you are.”

“Thanks, Martinez,” Rick says drily.

“No problem, _hermano_ ,” Martinez beams. Him and Andrea follow Morgan down the hall, and Daryl and Rick sit together and finally let out the laughs they’ve been holding in.

“Those assholes,” Rick says fondly.

“Yeah,” Daryl agrees.

-

The doc signs off on Rick’s release after a final physical exam, and it's like a shot of liquid freedom.

Everyone from the hospital shows up to see them off - T-dog, Parsons, Phillips, Karen, Beth, Michonne, Lucerne, Beck. Hell, even Su is there. They all wave and catcall and say goodbye in strained, I’m-not-about-to-cry-in-public-goddammit voices, and the whole thing is so sweet that it’s got a lump starting up in Daryl’s throat. Rick is grinning even as he’s huffing and puffing by the time they make it out to the car in the parking lot.

He’s looking a lil worse for wear today, so Daryl opens the door for him, and Rick falls into the passenger seat with a relieved sigh. Even T’s rigorous PT hasn’t really prepped him for longer stretches like this.

Daryl slides into the driver’s seat and buckles his seatbelt.

“Let’s go home,” Rick says, eyes warm and voice low.

Daryl stops.

His hand’s on the wheel and the key’s in the ignition, but it’s like he’s stuck there in one frozen spot, all because of one word.

“What?” Rick asks. “What’d I say?”

Daryl blinks at him.

Let’s go home. He said, let’s go _home_.

Daryl hasn’t had a home since -

Well.

Since his mother burnt it down.

“...Home,” Daryl finally says, like it’s a question and an answer at the same time.

Rick does a doubletake, studying him like he’s a goddamn skittish colt. Daryl curls into himself uncomfortably. To be honest, he kind of feels like one. A million insecurities just popped up from one offhand comment, when he’d almost been convinced they were just gonna drive into the sunset and live happily ever after.

“Home?” Rick asks softly. “D’you…?”

Daryl wishes Rick would finish that question of his, because then maybe he’d have some kind of answer to give him.

Rick doesn’t finish it, though. Just goes quiet.

They sit there in silence.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean - ” Rick cuts himself off. Clears his throat.

Daryl frowns at him. “Didn’t mean what?”

Rick’s eyes are downcast. Sad. When just a second ago, they’d been warm and bright. “Didn’t mean to presume.”

Daryl hesitates. Rick looks awful crushed, and that’s what makes the words stumble out - “Whaddya mean?” The words come out a little more desperate than he intended. “D’you mean you - ”

“I just meant - ” Rick says, just as desperate. “Just thought we’d - y’know.”

Daryl doesn’t know.

“Thought we’d what.”

“Live together,” Rick says, and his eyes are locked on Daryl’s, bright and determined and filled with a damned half-hope.

Daryl doesn’t say anything.

“You want to?” Rick presses.

Daryl bites his lip.

Does he want to.

Daryl thinks it over, thinks about all the months he’d spent pining away in the kitchen cupboard, the weeks he’d been ferociously in love with Rick, the days where he wasn’t sure if he was gonna be able to live to see Rick open his eyes again. Thinks about how he could turn tail and run right about now, and that would be the only thing that would save him from this town, this life, this love.

Thinks about how maybe he doesn’t want to be saved.

“I want to,” Daryl confesses, voice breaking. “I want to, I jus’ - ”

“Just what?” Rick leans in close, putting a comforting hand where Daryl’s shoulder meets his neck. “S’alright, just tell me. Whatever it is.”

“Never had a home that lasted before,” Daryl whispers, eyes shut. Hopes Rick can see all the spider cracks in him, from here, up close and personal, because Daryl doesn’t want to have to repeat himself. The truth hurts too much, sometimes. “Don’t know if - if I can take it, when this one burns down.”

Rick’s grip tightens. Daryl looks up right when Rick kisses him fiercely on the mouth.

“Burns down, falls down, doesn’t matter,” Rick rumbles, holding him in place possessively. “We’ll just build a new one. Together.”

“You sure?” Daryl asks, voice small. “With me?”

“With you,” Rick confirms, and there’s fire in his eyes. He goes for Daryl’s lips like he’s mounting an attack, like Daryl’s going to try to run for the hills if he doesn’t give it all he’s got. Rick practically growls like an animal, and Daryl shivers into it, melts, and thinks -

 _God, yes, I’ll be here at home with you for as long as you’ll have me_.

They break for air, panting, and Rick lets his forehead fall softly into Daryl’s. They breathe into each other’s mouths, and Rick’s grip on Daryl’s shoulder relaxes into more of a caress.

“Daryl,” Rick says. “Let’s go home.”

Daryl smiles, turns over the engine, and drives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around til the end! This was originally supposed to be only 30,000 words with three chapters, and here I am clocking in around 70,000 and six chapters. And I could've written another 20,000, just to clear all the loose threads up, but I decided to go light instead of heavy. Whew, thank god. This isn't supposed to happen when you're writing on a crack prompt - I'm bushed. 
> 
> Let me know if there are any questions about any of the threads I didn't close up - I have the answers, if you want them. Love you guys ♥
> 
> EDIT: Going to write a sequel!! From Rick's perspective. Hopefully it'll fill in some of the past stuff I left dangling, and maybe even touch on some future goings-on. Like an epilogue. It'll be called Blessed, and will be part 2 in the series along with Cursed. :)


End file.
